


What Dreams May Come

by EinahSirro



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Bilbo Baggins, Codependency, Comfort/Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, Dwarven Politics, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Possessive!Thorin, Rebuilding Erebor, Slash, a little kinky, foot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4741571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin lays dead. Unable to accept it, Bilbo descends into the Underworld to bring Thorin back. But suppose Thorin wants something in return?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can Do This

**Author's Note:**

> Bilbo clung to the prone figure, grand and fur-clad, sprawled on the white and silver ice. “No, no, no….” he protested wildly, watching the piercing blue eyes drift slowly away from his. His fingers dug into the bloody furs that enveloped the king. “The eagles are returning, Thorin! Thorin, look, the eagles—“
> 
> His voice broke into sobs. He gave a bitter gasp and collapsed, curling miserably around Thorin’s head, gently fingering the dark, silver-streaked hair that spread out over the glittering ice. Those staring eyes were bluer than the ice, deeper than the sky. He stroked the whitening cheek. This was not how it was supposed to end.

A SHORT WHILE LATER 

“You could do it,” Bilbo asserted to the two taller figures that stood uneasily before him. “Together, you could do it. She’s a healer, you’re a wizard.” He pointed directly at them, in a shocking display of bad manners, utterly abhorrent to Hobbits… unless they were absolutely desperate. “You… you could do this.”

Gandalf’s eyes flickered guiltily away. Tauriel looked horrified.

They stood in the burial chamber. Bilbo hovered protectively over Thorin’s body, laid out on the stretcher that had borne it with dignity into the Lonely Mountain. Into the chamber where lay Fili and Kili, each resplendent with their armor polished, their hair combed and braided, their hands arranged upon their weapons with dignity and grace.

The line of Durin. A handsome line. Faces quite delicate, for dwarves. Fine, chiseled features, eyes with wit and humor and life. All closed. All quiet. All cold.

Bilbo couldn’t stand it.

“I know you could do it. Gandalf. It’s only been… a short while. His body is intact, it’s… it’s his spirit that needs bringing back.” Bilbo claimed, more bluffing than certain, but willing to risk nearly anything.

Gandalf’s hand was in the pocket of his long, grey robe. It seemed to be uneasily fingering… something. Bilbo’s sharp eyes caught the motion. It was remarkably similar to how he fingered the One Ring.

“And you!” Bilbo turned to Tauriel. Her beautiful hazel eyes were swollen with crying over Kili. Her lips were red from being bitten in her attempts to control her grief. “You’re a healer. You… you have herbs, you have magic….”

Tauriel drew a deep breath and flicked her eyes over to Kili’s still form. The longing in her sculpted face was agonizing.

“You two,” Bilbo declared, and his breath was coming in little pants. He was angry, frankly. He was angry because he knew, he knew for certain, that the three of them combined could bring at least one of these dwarves back from the dead.

They were only a little bit dead.

Not… not really truly all-the-way, beyond-the-point-of-no-return dead. Bilbo was certain of it. There was only this squeamishness to overcome, this superstition about the dead. That their bodies could be re-animated without their souls. That they could become zombies, demons, something awful. Something Dark. Something Different. Not really themselves. Orcs, even.

 

Well yes, that could happen, if you didn’t retrieve the soul. But Bilbo was willing. Where was Thorin’s soul? The Hall of the Ancestors? Good. Halls were notoriously long and straight. Finding him should be no problem.

“You could do it. You, Tauriel, you could mend his wounds. You, Gandalf, you could keep his heart beating. And me. Me. I can go and get his soul, or his spirit, or whatever you want to call it. I could do it—“

Gandalf was already shaking his head, sorrow and fear etched upon his thin, lined features.

“Bilbo, Bilbo, I understand your loss—“

Bilbo pointed an accusing finger at the grey wizard.

“You understand nothing.” He bit out, utterly uncaring of the fact that Gandalf could probably zap him to dust. By all means, zap me to dust. Dust feels no pain. Bilbo was past the point of fear.

“You help me. You help me with this. You do this—“ Bilbo focused on the nervous movements of Gandalf’s fingers in his pocket. The Hobbit’s face became suddenly calm.

“You do this, and I’ll give you this.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the Ring. He unfolded his soft, thick, Hobbity fingers before the wizard and displayed the ring, cool and golden, impossibly smooth and perfect. It lay in his palm and gleamed.

“I’ll give it to you.” Bilbo repeated, his eyes stern and unwavering under his lowered brow. He stared up at the wizard without the slightest hesitation.


	2. It Is Forbidden

Gandalf stared long at the Ring, and then took a step back, as if this offer was more repellent than tempting. His eyes fixed on the shining band of gold in that soft palm. Surely it could not be…

No wonder the Hobbit was so good at disappearing!

“Bilbo, you don’t know what you are playing at,” he said in a rumbling whisper. His old eyes fixed on the ring. “Don’t.” It was almost a plea. “Don’t,” he repeated.

Bilbo clutched his fist around the ring, his face flushing in frustration. Every minute Thorin lay cold and still, his soul ventured deeper and deeper into the Afterlife, the timeless limbo, hypnotic and drifting. Damn wizards and their scruples.

Bilbo took a deep breath. He looked quickly around the cold, stone walls of the burial chamber. Its very chill gave him hope that Thorin’s body could be preserved until he, Bilbo, could find his spirit, lead it back, and reunite them. If this damn ring and that damn wizard and that damn elf combined couldn’t do it, he’d eat his cousin Lobelia’s cooking.

“Fine.” He said. “I’ll give the ring to Bard. The human. We all know how well humans handle power.” Bilbo stuffed the ring into his pocket and made as if to march past Gandalf and Tauriel.

“Wait!” Gandalf and Tauriel cried at once, she because she knew how badly such a seed would blossom, and the wizard because… well… he clearly had something in his pocket he was loathe to share.

Bilbo slunk back to Thorin’s side, covering one cold, marble hand with his own, warm, Hobbit hand. _I’d give every drop of warmth from my body to bring you back,_ he thought. He didn’t say it. He was almost certain Gandalf could sense it. He glared up at the wizard without a drop of charity in his large, burning eyes.

Gandalf drew in a long breath.

“There is one very slim possibility,” he admitted heavily.

Bilbo didn’t so much as flick an eyelid. _I knew it,_ he thought.

Gandalf continued. “I do… have something… that could… “ he hemmed and hawed a bit. 

“Yes?” Bilbo gritted out with barely restrained mania.

“It could stop the body from proceeding further into…” he looked as if he were wincing, “decay. Stop the cooling. Stop the stiffening. Keep the blood liquid, keep the heat. Even move the lungs and heart. Protect the mind.”

Bilbo’s eyes were two, large, unblinking blue worlds fixed on Gandalf’s face. Gollum himself could not have looked more intent.

Gandalf shifted again, his long bony fingers tightening on his staff. He glanced over at Tauriel almost as if he hoped she would not still be standing there, her hands pressed together, her eyes moving back and forth between the other two.

“And in this state, his body’s condition could be … improved,” Gandalf admitted finally.

Tauriel drew in a deep breath, understanding.

“But, Bilbo….” The old wizard returned his faded eyes hesitantly to the determined Hobbit. “Even so, it would be a temporary expedient. It wouldn’t… it wouldn’t take. Not unless Thorin himself returned to claim this damaged vehicle. And I must tell you, my boy—“ Gandalf reached out as if he would place his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. But Bilbo drew back slightly, eying the old mage as if they were bitter enemies.

“Once a spirit has experienced that freedom of earthly bonds, it is usually unwilling to return,” Gandalf finished sadly. He knew this from personal experience. Coming back was, to be honest, unpleasant. The return was to pain, to limitation, to the awareness of every tick of the clock. To the tumult of emotion, the needs of the flesh, the uncertainty and blindness that was Earthly Life… it was not… desirable.

Bilbo clutched the cold hand that lay on the armored chest of the body at his side. That chiseled profile, so cold and proud and white. That rippling hair, still so vibrant and dark.

_I’ll have him back,_ the Hobbit vowed, _or I’ll die trying._ His face must have borne testament to his determination.

Tauriel swallowed and finally spoke. “Bilbo, you would have to go down into the Underworld yourself. Your very soul. Your body would grow as still and cold as these our loved ones. And if you could not return…?”

What she was afraid to say was that this was tantamount to suicide. And suicidal souls, the Elves believed, bore a special, additional weight. One that made them sink below the level of others. There might be even a special danger there.

Bilbo turned to her. “We each have our talents. You—“ he pointed again at Gandalf, “can protect life. You—“ his gaze took in the beautiful Elf, “can heal broken bodies. And I—“ he sucked in all the air he could, “I can go blindly where others fear to tread. Send me.” 

Bilbo turned back to Gandalf and commanded the old wizard with all the confidence in his stocky little body. “Send me. Send me to Thorin. I’ll return with him, or I’ll stay with him. Do this. Do it now, or I’ll take this Ring and I swear by all that’s sacred, I’ll do something awful with it.”

By now Bilbo’s voice was clearly showing the panic in his heart. Thorin was ice cold. His chest had not risen in hours. His mind could be quite erased. But surely… this was a quest more noble than any that had gone before. Slay dragons? Reclaim gold treasures? Here was a soul that was dragon and treasure both! Bilbo wanted that soul, he wanted it ensconced in that body, that stout, strong, powerful, noble body. He wanted that soul shining out of those blue eyes. Now.

Now!

“Tell me what to do.” He ordered. Still they hesitated. 

Now he rounded on Tauriel, furious. “Wouldn’t you do it? For Kili?”

But to his surprise, she lowered her eyes and turned slightly away. “It is forbidden,” she whispered, even as tear drops glistened on her lashes. “It’s not right. If he is at peace… it’s not right,” she protested feebly.

Bilbo turned back to Gandalf. “Do this, or I will wreak havoc,” he promised. He was flushed to the pointed tips of his ears. “Havoc!” he repeated. Such a look he had, thought the wizard with a sinking heart. He was lost either way.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes at Bilbo for a moment. Then he exhaled and drew his hand from his pocket. In it was a small, marble-like orb that glowed faintly. “I have learned,” he admitted, “not to underestimate Hobbits.”

Bilbo slipped the Ring back into his vest pocket. Then he put both hands on Thorin’s cold ones, folded over his sword. “What do we do?” 

Gandalf went to stand at the side of the marble figure of Thorin Oakenshield. Carefully, he parted the thin, white lips and pushed the small, glowing globe inside the dwarf’s mouth. Spreading his hands over the pale face, he began to recite the ancient words that most wizards never dared to enunciate.

Bilbo glared at Tauriel until she stepped gingerly to Thorin’s other side, her hands already reaching into her bags for her supply of herbs. 

“I don’t know,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on Thorin’s face in fearful fascination. “I don’t know if I can…”

Bilbo’s eyes were unwavering. Tauriel looked at him for a moment and shook her head in foreboding. But then she drew a handful of herbs out of her pack and rubbed them into her palms. She closed her own eyes, placed her hands on Thorin’s chest, very near Gandalf’s, and added her honeyed, alto tones to his. Together they began to chant.


	3. The Spell

Bilbo hovered at Thorin’s side, his eyes never moving from that broad brow, those deep-set eye sockets, that knife blade of a nose… _Come on,_ he pleaded. _Your people await, Erebor awaits… you are loved, you are needed… come, come…_ his mind chanted.

After long moments, Bilbo could see the faintest sheen appearing on Thorin’s pale forehead. His face was still deathly white, but the hands clutched in his own grew slightly warmer. Suddenly the great chest rose and fell beneath his carefully arranged furs. Then it rose and fell again. And then again.

Quickly, Tauriel dug her fingers into her pack again and brought forth a powder that she held under Thorin’s nose. Bilbo could see it displace slightly as air drew in the dwarf’s nostrils, and then came gently out again.

She stared down at him for a moment, almost as if she was surprised at their success. Then, the healer in her took over. “I have to see the wound,” she muttered, and began to peel back his furs.

Gandalf stepped back from Thorin’s side, his hands still hovering above the prone form.

“Can you do this alone?” he asked her. “I dare not inform anyone else what we are doing.”

Tauriel nodded eagerly, gaze intent upon the patient, her fingers unbuttoning and unlacing deftly.

Bilbo’s heart pounded as Thorin’s chest lifted again. Suddenly the head turned to the side, and Thorin’s eyebrows drew together as if he were in pain. His lips parted slightly, but there was no other movement. Bilbo studied him intently. This was not a true return to life; he could see that. There was something yet too still, too white about him. There was warmth, fluidity, even a touch of animation… but even some plants react to touch. It does not mean they are aware.

And that awful pallor did not ease. It merely acquired a sheen of perspiration, as if the heat in the body were building, and little else. Even a Hobbit could see, this was a temporary fix.

Bilbo stepped back and turned to Gandalf.

“What next?” He asked, with a resoluteness so utterly unlike the nervous, dithering Hobbit of the Shire. The Hobbit who had feared for his cutlery was nowhere in sight. This was the Hobbit who had faced the trolls, the Orcs, the goblins, and a dragon.

“What do I do?”

Gandalf kept one long hand hovering over Thorin and let the other come to float over Bilbo’s curly head.

“I must send you to his Afterlife. Mind you, Hobbit, I send you to HIS afterlife. Not your own. It’s a foreign world you enter, one that has no place for you. If you end up stranded there… I cannot guarantee your safety.”

They both smiled grimly at each other at this familiar phraseology.

“You might want to lie down,” Gandalf added.

Bilbo glanced quickly around for a comfortable place in the tomb. It was a tomb. There was no comfortable place. Following his heart, Bilbo hopped up onto the stone slab that Thorin rested upon. Even as he did so, the dwarf’s body turned slightly and twisted, as if pained by Tauriel’s probing administrations. The marble face was shiny with sweat now, brow furrowed, teeth clenched around the glowing orb in his mouth.

Biblo settled himself on the slab between Thorin’s heavily booted feet, and then wrapped his arms gently about the strong calves. He curled up and lowered himself to rest with his head on one thick thigh, just above the knee. Then he took a deep breath.

“I’m ready,” he whispered, and dug his fingers in.

Gandalf’s cold hand settled upon Bilbo’s neck, and the coldness seemed to sink into his throat until swallowing was painful. It spread down his arms in prickles and frissons, and then seeped into his chest. His head grew very heavy. His eyelids seemed to grow closed, as if the seam between them had fused. His legs and stomach felt like concrete.

After a long, hypnotized moment, Bilbo felt himself to be sliding down the side of an icy mountain in pitch dark. He could feel the cold. He could smell the snow, even. He fancied he could feel wind rushing past him as his stomach plunged deep into the unknown depths of this mountainside. He rode this sensation until he felt as though he’d grown accustomed to it, could breathe, even. Falling, falling.

And then he landed. And it wasn’t dark at all when he landed. In fact, it was quite bright.


	4. The Hall of the Ancestors

The whiteness was foggy, at first. Bilbo was curled on the icy marble floor in the same posture he’d curled himself on Thorin’s legs. He moved himself carefully, feeling stiff and rather trembly. After careful balancing, however, he felt himself able to stand. He rose and stood looking in each direction, his eyes straining to pierce the fog.

“Thorin?” He called.

There was not even an echo. Bilbo swallowed uneasily and took a few steps in a random direction. Fog. He turned slowly in a circle, peering about, but there was nothing. Only fog. On an impulse, he looked directly up overhead.

Fog. 

Alright, then. It’s… foggy.

“Thorin!” He shouted. Nothing. The whiteness was as silent and cold as darkness. After a moment of blinking at it, Bilbo had to wave his own hands before him so that he could be assured that his eyes could still see.

He waited a moment, and then huffed a sigh and started walking. Any direction was better than just standing befuddled in the blinding whiteness. He walked without knowing where he was going for several minutes before stopping again. When he looked behind him, guess what he saw? Fog.

Bilbo’s fingers patted his waistcoat pocket out of pure nervousness. There was no threat here other than eternity, but nevertheless, he felt for the Ring. Just in case.

To his terror, the Ring was not there. He dug his fingers into the pocket frantically.

But no, of course… this was just his soul. The Ring was with his body, up in the real world, growing cool as it huddled adoringly between Thorin’s armored boots. Gandalf could be holding the Ring in his hands at this very moment; Bilbo no longer a deterrent. Bilbo… no longer alive, really.

The Hobbit drew in a sharp breath. Okay. No point in panicking; The Ring can’t help you when you’re dead. He started walking again, but it wasn’t long before he realized that one does not simply walk into the Dwarven Afterlife. As a Hobbit, he wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He stopped again. _Think, Bilbo. Think. In the world, Thorin and I are touching. I am huddled between his feet, my head is upon his leg. We are this close._

As an experiment, Bilbo crouched down upon the icy floor and closed his eyes, concentrating on feeling Thorin’s armored, leather clad legs about him. Feeling that cold, hard thigh beneath his ear. He concentrated till he could feel it. Then he opened his eyes again.

Wonder of wonders. 

Bilbo looked about himself, his eyes eagerly tracing the shapes as they became apparent in the white haze. Thrones. Pillars. Long, white columns, disappearing in either direction. And on many of the gleaming white thrones, sat a dwarf, resplendent in arms, braids and leather, their faces still and blank as statues staring before them. Some thrones were empty.

Beneath Bilbo’s grasping hands, however, were two familiar, strong legs, widely planted. Rock hard and utterly still, they were. Unyielding as statue, almost, though there was some give to the fabric. Bilbo glanced quickly up.

Thorin.

Thorin, seated majestically on a throne carved of… marble? Ice? Pure Arkenstone? It glowed like opal. Thorin was dignified and beautiful upon it, his hair streaming away from that dramatic point on his wide brow, the streaks of silver shining and pure. His eyes had a far-seeing, satisfied, thoughtful cast to them. On his thin lips curved the slightest smile. His hands were clasped calmly on the arms of the throne, which were carved like dragon’s heads. His funeral raiment gleamed in black and silver. He was a vision of still, unsullied perfection. He looked at peace.

Bilbo came slowly to his feet, standing between the powerful legs with one timid hand on each knee.

“Thorin?” he asked.

Thorin did not move, staring beyond the glowing Hall at visions that must be ever unfolding, ever entrancing. His eyes were moist, living, but unblinking. His lips were pink, but no breath touched them. His hands – Bilbo touched them carefully – were neither warm nor cold. The skin was soft but the muscle beneath rigid.

Bilbo swallowed. Thorin seemed… suspended, somehow. Was it because… was it because Gandalf and Tauriel held his body hostage to life in the land above? Hesitantly, Bilbo stepped away from his beloved king and went to the nearest similar figure. This must be Thrain. He was much older, his beard a silver waterfall. 

Bilbo stepped up carefully, staring into the figure’s eyes. It stared off much as Thorin was doing, captivated by visions or memories only it could see. The eyes were much as Thorin’s. Whatever was happening to his body above, it seemed to have no effect on the soul in this bright, silent place.

Bilbo returned to Thorin. He climbed up the few steps the throne was seated upon, and regained his place between the still, well-shod feet. Thorin continued to gaze into eternity beatifically. 

“Thorin!” Bilbo said urgently. There was not so much as a flicker of response. How much time did he have? Bilbo cursed himself for not asking Gandalf. _Is time the same here? Do I have minutes? Do I have forever?_

“Thorin!” he called, louder. He brought his hands up to either side of that coldly carved face and dug his fingers into the hair that swept up and back from the high, noble forehead.

“Thorin! Thorin, look at me! Thorin!” He called. 

No response.

Overcome, Bilbo closed his eyes and sank forward, pushing his own warm face against the one before him. “Thorin, please. Please, please, come back, come back,” he whispered brokenly. “We need you, we need you… come back and be king. I’ll follow you always, you’ll have your gold, you’ll rule Erebor, you’ll rule the dwarves, you’ll rule _me,_ just come back, please, please…” 

He was not aware how long he begged in this pitiful manner. He felt no movement in response to his pleas, but when he finally drew back in despair, his stomach locked up. Thorin’s eyes had moved ever so slightly. They were no longer gazing at eternity. They were definitely directed at Bilbo.


	5. The Bargain

The Hobbit’s heart began hammering in his chest. It was eerie, the sensation of Thorin’s soul gazing into his own. His hands were still clasping the king’s head, and he lowered them respectfully, but couldn’t help settling them on the wide, armored shoulders.

“Can you hear me?” Bilbo breathed hopefully.

With preternatural slowness, Thorin’s ocean-colored eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and then relaxed again.

“Thorin, it’s Bilbo. Do you remember me? Do you know me??” He bit his lip and watched as Thorin’s head tipped just a fraction to the side. The brilliant blue eyes remained upon Bilbo’s hopeful face.

“Can you come back with me? Can you… can you stand? For me? Can you… can you take my hand?” Bilbo was practically babbling now, his hand wrapped around one beringed hand and tugging gently.

“Thorin?”

The dwarf stared at Bilbo, utterly still and intent. The slight smile on his lips spread out still more and his head tipped back slightly. But slow, slow… the movements were almost too slow to see. Bilbo tried to draw Thorin’s hand toward him, and for a moment he seemed to be succeeding. The hand lifted from its dragon’s head arm rest. But even as Bilbo thought he was pulling the king from his throne, the hand moved higher and after a moment, Bilbo let it go, recognizing that it was moving in a direction other than what he was urging.

He grew still. Thorin’s hand drifted up and up until it came to rest on Bilbo’s dark gold curls. His heart swelled gratefully at the touch. The hand settled there, heavy and gradually warming, and those piercing blue eyes beneath the thick, straight brows continued to stare into his own. Bilbo felt as though he could hear a faint ringing in his ears. The look in Thorin’s eyes was warm, aware, affectionate, joyful. His thin lips parted as if he were about to speak. 

But he didn’t speak. The moment drew out longer and longer. Gradually, Bilbo became aware that the hand on his head was heavy. Very heavy. It was so heavy, eventually, that it seemed right to let his knees bend again and sink to kneel between the heavy boots on either side of him.

Bilbo knelt, his arms still stretched up in supplication, one on Thorin’s arm, the other on his thigh. Were Thorin’s fingers slowly twisting into his hair, tightening their grip? Was his head tipping back until the gaze he directed down at the Hobbit was somehow gloating as well as loving? Bilbo felt as though he no longer needed to breathe.

Suddenly, a deep voice reverberated in his head.

_“Stay.”_

There was no doubt it was Thorin’s voice. Bilbo gazed pleadingly up at him from between those heavy legs. Weary, he felt as though it would be pleasant to lean against one strong leg and leave his arms draped lovingly around his king. He let his head come down on Thorin’s knee, tipped back so he could still gaze up at him.

It would be nice to simply drift this way. After a moment, Bilbo felt Thorin’s other hand barely touching his neck. The touch grew warmer and firmer with that same hypnotic, barely perceptible creep. The fingers wrapped around his neck with increasing firmness, warmer and warmer, as if their two souls touching created this heat. Everywhere they touched was heat. Bilbo drifted, reveling in the hand buried in his hair, the press of the calves against his ribs, the thighs under his beseeching arms, the eyes still staring down possessively into his.

Then he felt Thorin’s thumb wrap round his neck and come to rest on his throat. And tighten. Just a fraction. And those eyes took on a burning brightness that seemed to stab through Bilbo with a dark significance.

There was something about that movement that made him go weak in the thighs.

The grasp on his hair tightened more, drawing his head back, arching his spine slightly. It would have been slightly painful, but that Bilbo seemed incapable of feeling pain anymore. He felt only excitement, and a strange delight. Delight at his intimate position at Thorin’s feet, delight at the intensity with which the king gradually molded his body into a more helpless and slavish posture. _Oh, God,_ Bilbo thought muzzily. _This could be eternity._ It was not an unpleasant thought at all.

_“Stay.”_ The voice commanded again, and Bilbo found himself growing limp and still, as statue-like as Thorin. They could be fused together in this erotic tableau forever, eyes locked, touching nearly everywhere… an eternity of adoration, and gloating satisfaction at the loyalty that had sent a Hobbit into –

Bilbo blinked himself into awareness.

No, this wasn’t the plan. The plan was to bring Thorin back with him.

_“Come,”_ he thought in response to Thorin’s command. _“Come back.”_

He willed his fingers to grasp and pull again, to pull Thorin off that throne, to pull himself to his feet.

Thorin’s hands became like vises, and had Bilbo had a pulse, it would have been nearly stilled at the pressure of those hands. Now Thorin seemed to be leaning forward, curling gradually over him, looming, staring down unblinkingly.

_“STAY.”_ His voice commanded in Bilbo’s thumping brain.

_“Come,”_ Bilbo attempted in return, pulling at Thorin. If he could just get him off that throne!

Thorin’s eyes narrowed again, more distinctly this time. Bilbo became aware of the length of those black lashes.

_“Mine.”_ Bilbo heard the voice in his head.

Bilbo’s eyes remained fixed on the dwarf’s, as hypnotized as a tiny mammal beneath a swooping hawk.

“Yes, yes,” he said breathlessly, and now he was speaking aloud again, galvanized by the increasing tilt of Thorin’s torso as he leaned over the kneeling, begging Hobbit.

_“Mine,”_ repeated Thorin’s voice.

Bilbo pulled with all his might. “Yes, yes, yours. Yours, Thorin, anything you want, anything you say, yours forever, please, just please come back. Please come back?”

There was a long pause as Thorin stared raptly down at Bilbo’s open, beseeching face.

_“Promise.”_ Came his voice in Bilbo’s mind.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo repeated, hardly thinking about what he was saying, only knowing that whatever it was, it was working. Thorin was moving. He was coming off that throne! “Yes, yours, I promise, always, yours, whatever you want, whatever you say, just come, come back, come —“

Slowly, Thorin slipped forward until he and Bilbo were both kneeling at the foot of the throne. Then the momentum carried him forward until he and Bilbo both slid down the stairs in a graceless movement that should have been painful, but wasn’t.

All Bilbo Baggins knew was that for one blissful moment, he was flat on his back and Thorin Oakenshield was flat on top of him, crushing him exquisitely into the floor. Then he lost consciousness, and the glaring white of the Hall of the Ancestors darkened to gray, and then to black.


	6. The Awakening

When Bilbo awoke, pain had returned, although it wasn’t terrible. Ribs, mostly. He was on his back on the floor of the tomb, and Thorin’s body was splayed directly on top of him. They had fallen off the slab. Gandalf and Tauriel were frantically trying to roll Thorin over, and when they finally managed it, the dwarf gave a deep, lingering groan. His face was still pale, but not deathly so. His eyes were open, blinking, unfocused. 

Bilbo sucked in a deep breath, finally able to inhale without the crushing weight of the king and all his armor pinning him to the floor. His hands and feet were tingling and numb.

“Bilbo. Bilbo!” Gandalf hovered over him as Tauriel ran from the tomb to summon help. “Speak to me.”

Bilbo stared at the wizard for a moment, and then rolled his head--in a rather wobbly fashion, like it wasn’t hinged quite right--over to look at Thorin. The other lay with his hair tangled wildly about him. His hand moved up to press at the wound in his chest. Tauriel had packed it with what looked like herbs and mud. He was befuddled and in pain. But he was definitely alive.

Bilbo rolled his head back to Gandalf. “I got him.” Was all he managed, but Gandalf stared down at him with a slow smile growing on his face. 

“You did indeed, Master Baggins. You did indeed.”

After that was tumult. The remaining dwarves came streaming into the tomb, their faces a mixture of joy and fear. Bofur looked overwhelmed with disbelief. Ori was timidly hopeful. Dori was wild to wrap the king in furs and get him back onto a stretcher and out of the tomb. Dwalin was ready to simply gather Thorin in his mighty arms and carry him out like a bride. 

Only Balin looked still and watchful, his eyes darting from Thorin to Gandalf and back, as if it might be some dark trick that would turn out badly. Tauriel also hung back. Now that her healing was done, the re-animated form of Thorin made her distinctly uneasy. 

Oin took charge. “You! And You!” He pointed to Dwalin and Bofur. “Grab that stretcher!” Gandalf watched in silence.

They bundled Thorin onto the stretcher and carried him to the rooms where they tended the wounded. Bilbo followed limpingly. As he did, his hands nervously patted his pockets. The Ring was still there. Gandalf hadn’t taken it. Bilbo turned to glance gratefully back at the wizard, who nodded at him genially. 

But as the Hobbit turned again to follow the stretcher bearing the barely conscious Thorin, Gandalf’s face grew somber again. The wizard stood looking for a long time in the direction of the Hobbit, whose remarkable feet pattered loyally after the dwarven king.

Tauriel drew nearer Gandalf. “Did we do right?” She asked in a soft, nervous voice.

The old grey head moved slowly back and forth. “I do not know. We shall see.”

The beautiful Elf stared in the same direction. “Will he be himself?”

Again, Gandalf shook his head. “There is no way of knowing but to wait.”

Suddenly, by mutual consent, the two gave each other one last uneasy glance and parted, like criminals anxious to leave the scene of the crime.

 

The swarm of dwarves around their restored king left Bilbo abandoned behind a sea of backs for some time, but he found a stool to settle on and watched from nearby while they removed Thorin’s battle gear and bathed his wounds. Only the fatal one, that Tauriel’s magic still protected, was left strictly alone. Instinctively they knew the Elven poultice must remain undisturbed for several hours. Maybe even days.

It was enough for the dwarves to bathe him, swaddle him lovingly in clean sheets and pillows and soft furs and bandages, to feel his forehead every few minutes, to stare into his vague and wandering eyes, to feel his pulse again and again, to urge shallow bowls of broth to his lips, to cover any part of him that appeared chilled, and fan any extremity that seemed sweaty, and argue jealously with each other over whose turn it was to watch over him, and check his wounds for any sign of infection.

Bilbo finally drifted off to sleep on a cot nearby, awakening whenever someone came to fuss over Thorin. Which was every 30 minutes. But it was worth it to the Hobbit just to lay and watch that sharp, clear cut profile in the flickering firelight, and see the occasional blink of his eye lids, the rising and falling of his chest, the slight movements of his hands.

Thorin had not yet spoken nor made any sign of understanding. But his eyes were open, and they wandered about. Occasionally he seemed to make eye contact with someone, but it wasn’t certain if he was aware of it. His hands occasionally moved slightly to a different position. Sometimes he rolled his head away from the fire, other times toward it. 

This continued for some twelve hours. Bilbo was so exhausted, he drifted in and out of sleep in such a manner as to seem in not much better shape, except that he smiled at anyone who stopped by his bed to check on him, and thanked them for the broth.

At length, Bilbo awoke in the wee hours of the morning and knew that he was recovered enough to sit up and leave his cot. Thorin was resting peacefully nearby, one bare arm out-flung and the other lying over his mid section, atop the sheets. Bilbo came to his side to gaze down with satisfaction. It was a much more natural position than the stiff one in which they’d laid him to rest, his sword atop him. His color was back. His neck was slightly moistened with perspiration, just a touch. His hair was a river over his pillow and scattered about his shoulders. His breathing was deep and comfortable. His eyelids moved as if he were dreaming. _He's beautiful,_ Bilbo thought. Then he rather blinked at himself. Beautiful. Well. Alright then.

“Were you there?” 

Bilbo looked up, startled, and realized that Bombur was sitting in a chair by the fire, taking his turn to watch over his sleeping king.

Bombur leaned his heavy form a bit toward Bilbo and spoke again, very quietly, obviously not wanting to disturb Thorin, or any of the other dwarves and men who lay on cots and cushions and furs about the impromptu medical ward.

“When he came back? Were you there? Did you see it?”

Bilbo’s mouth opened and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say. It was not lost on him that Gandalf and Tauriel had been unwilling, and were still afraid. The entire undertaking had reeked of black magic, and deals made with demons, and questions as to the fate of souls, and all sorts of philosophical matters that could turn joy to suspicion and horror very quickly.

He gave a baffled laugh and shook his head. “It was the most amazing thing,” he began, and then blinked a few more times before launching into what would now have to be his Official Version of Events.

“The – um – the most amazing thing, really, we were … we, I mean, I and Gandalf and Tauriel, we were standing there looking at him, and telling him how much he was honored and loved, and … suddenly he just opened his eyes, gasped, and rolled over and fell right off the slab and on top of me!”

Bombur was listening with wide eyes and open mouth.

Bilbo gave a rueful chuckle. “Scared me half to death, I don’t mind telling you. You almost lost me the same time you got him back,” he joked, waggling a finger. “But you know, I’ve seen it before. I had a fish come back to life once. Yes! Out of water a half hour he was and suddenly the gills started going and it started flopping around… I wasn’t as happy about that one, though, because that was supposed to be dinner. But you know,” Bilbo went on, improvising madly, “I threw it back in the water because I thought, a fish that comes back from the dead deserves a second chance. And it swam away. And I had chicken that night---“

He took a deep breath and stopped himself babbling. Bombur was still staring at him, but suddenly his eyes went past him to Thorin. Bilbo turned to see that the dwarven king was awake and looking at him.

Immediately his heart rate sped up. The nervous smile faded from his face, and he approached the bed hopefully. He was a little disconcerted to see that Thorin’s eyes did not track him. He lay still staring toward the fire. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo whispered, leaning down. There was a stool at hand, and Bilbo tugged it forward so he could sit at Thorin’s side. He wanted very much to put his hands into that hair, touch the bare, gleaming white shoulder, stroke Thorin’s arm… anything really, anything to show his affection and adoration and relief. But despite that charged, weirdly erotic moment they had shared in the other world, Bilbo was fairly certain he wasn’t authorized to fondle the Risen King of Erebor.

Thorin’s face remained slack and blank, but his one outstretched hand flexed slowly, as if he were trying to open and close it, but had no strength. His movements were slight and slow, reminding Bilbo very much of his presence on that gleaming white throne. A statue that moves, ever so slowly. 

Bombur drew up on Thorin’s other side, “Are you hungry?” He asked hopefully.

Thorin did not respond. He simply stared toward the fire, his fingers moving slightly. Finally, Bilbo decided that holding a sick person’s hand was appropriate enough, and wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, so he slipped his hand into Thorin’s. He was unprepared when the dwarf’s hand clamped immediately about his own. Firmly. Like an oyster snapping shut. 

Bilbo jumped a little, and gave a little gasp, but recovered himself and smiled broadly. That was good, that was a good sign! Responsive! Alright then. He settled in comfortably and brought both hands to cup Thorin’s, and let himself subtly stroke the dwarf’s thick, surprisingly long fingers in a discreet show of affection.

Bombur hovered for a moment longer and then decided that _awake_ equals _hungry._ “I’ll get more broth. He needs to regain his strength,” he whispered, and then waddled away as quietly as he could. 

Bilbo watched him go, and then returned his gaze to Thorin. He gloried in the grip Thorin had on his hand, and tipped his head forward to intercept that dark blue gaze. The dwarf parted his lips briefly, and Bilbo could see his tongue move slightly in his mouth, just behind his teeth. Then his lips closed again.

Then they opened again, and the same movement was repeated. Thorin’s eyes still stared blankly in the general direction of the fire, and Bilbo’s eagerly tipped face. But he was definitely … saying something. A word. Not a breath of voice escaped him, not even an exhalation of a whisper. He was simply mouthing a word, over and over.

Bilbo leaned closer, focusing on the lips. They pressed together, and then they opened. The tongue touched the palate behind his teeth, and the lips closed again.

The Hobbit tried mimicking the movements with his own mouth to see if he could figure out the word. It wasn’t “water” or “food” or anyone’s name. For an unhappy moment, he thought it might be “pain.” But that didn’t seem quite it. The lips and tongue looked more like “pine.” But there was no puff of a /p/.

Thorin’s hand tightened on Bilbo’s still more and his eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared slightly, giving him a determined, vaguely threatening look. Suddenly, with a chill, Bilbo realized what Thorin was mouthing: _Mine. Mine. Mine._

And those fingers were clamped on his hand like a vise.


	7. His

Bilbo drew back slowly, swallowing. He didn’t try to retrieve his hand, didn’t want to, really, but… well, that was a little unnerving, wasn’t it? That staring, and the single word. _Mine._

“Okay, well, yes.” He decided. He did remember promising Thorin anything, anything at all, if he would just come back. So. There you have it, he’d made a promise.

“Yes, I… yes. I’m yours. Your… your faithful servant.” Bilbo said lightly, and then smiled. “Your humble and faithful servant! Always. Honored to be at your side, honored to call you King. Yes. And… well. I hope I can make myself useful.”

Bombur returned with the broth and between them, they carefully propped up the wounded dwarf and introduced the oily, savory liquid into his mouth. He swallowed some, and Bombur lovingly dabbed away what slipped down Thorin’s chin. Bilbo would have helped but the king still had a vise-like grip on his hand, so he settled for helping prop up.

When Thorin’s eyes began to flicker closed again, they lowered him gently, and Bombur re-checked every stitch, bruise, and scratch to ensure that nothing had ruptured, or resumed bleeding, or grown angry and red.

“What about that?” Bilbo gestured with his free hand at the dressing on Thorin’s chest.

Bombur shook his head. “I’d like that Elf to come check on it, but she hasn’t been seen since—“

Bilbo nodded understandingly. “You know, I think I’m going to have a look around for her,” he decided. “See if she’ll come and inspect it, see if it needs more, you know…” he let his voice trail off as Bombur nodded agreeably.

Bilbo worked his hand free with some difficulty and immediately Thorin’s eyes opened again. They gazed sternly straight ahead, as if he were a displeased statue. Bilbo stood and went around to stand at his feet for a moment, to catch that stare. Thorin’s lips moved again, ever so slightly. Even if others had been there, only Bilbo would have been able to discern that single word again. _Mine._

_Yes,_ Bilbo mouthed back, nodding reassuringly, his hand on his heart. _Yours. Yours._ He glanced over at Bombur, who had his large back turned as he wiped out the broth bowl with a towel, by the fire. Bilbo looked back and locked eyes with Thorin. His features were sharp and alert in the firelight, and once again, that commanding stare he’d leveled at Bilbo in the Hall of the Ancestors was evident.

Impulsively, in a gesture both generous and heartfelt, Bilbo sank to his knees and kissed one large, thankfully clean foot that protruded from under the sheets. He took it in his hands, pressed his cheek to it, and planted another kiss on the pale arch. Then he gazed back at Thorin with his heart swelling. _Yours,_ he mouthed.

The sternness faded from the dwarf king’s face, and a small smile curled up his lips, briefly. He faded off to sleep and Bilbo rose silently and slipped away to find Tauriel. And Gandalf. Thorin was still in need of aid, that much was clear. It was as if he hadn’t come all the way back. And Bilbo wanted him all the way back.

The company was stirring and breakfast smells were evident by the time Bilbo located Tauriel. She was in the main hall, moving amongst the wounded humans of Laketown, applying herbs here, a clean cloth there, the occasional sad smile. She straightened when she saw Bilbo, and her face settled into tense lines.

“How is he?” She asked in a low voice when Bilbo approached.

“Um, well… still kind of out of it, you know… not much communication. Stares off into space. Eats a little, broods a lot. Okay, that actually sounds more like Thorin As Normal than it should. No, he’s… not quite all there yet. And we’re worried about that chest wound. Can you come?”

Tauriel drew her shoulders back as if bracing for something, and then nodded acquiescence. She followed him to the head of the hall, and they both stopped for a bite of meat by the fireplace. Well, Tauriel took a dainty nibble from a dish of rather small, misshapen fruits delivered apparently by a grateful survivor of Laketown. Bilbo sank his teeth into the meat and licked his fingers appreciatively. Hungry. Always.

The Elf watched him in some amusement. “You are truly a remarkable creature, Master Baggins. You skip into the Dwarven underworld, pluck out their dead, and then come scampering back for breakfast.”

Bilbo swallowed his last bite and wiped his face carefully with the dilapidated remains of his handkerchief. 

“Yes, well. You know. Food is important.” He said, not knowing what her point was. He wiped his fingers fastidiously and then led her to the inner rooms where Thorin lay sleeping.

Tauriel’s smile faded as she approached the regal figure draped rather gracefully on his bed. She bent over him quietly, her eyes studying his breathing, his pulse, his eyelids and chest. Finally she decided there was nothing fearsome there, and began gently picking at the dressing of his wound.

Bilbo hovered for a moment and then went round to his stool and took his place at Thorin’s side again. For a long time the dwarf slept unknowingly on as the Elven maiden carefully cleaned the fearsome looking wound and ground up more herbs to reapply. She leaned back for a moment and motioned to Bombur, who was watching raptly.

“Do you have honey?” She whispered, and he nodded eagerly, darting out with surprising speed for his bulk. When she looked back at her patient, Tauriel drew in her breath and froze.

Thorin’s eyes were open and there was nothing vague about them. He was glaring at her with unmistakable malevolence. Even his lip had curled back slightly, showing a bit of white teeth, like a dog’s snarl. He looked positively demonic, and her face blanched white. Slowly his right arm, near Bilbo, began to drift up as if it were floating, but the fingers were curled and claw-like.

Bilbo leaned over him, worried. “No, Thorin… no, it’s okay, she’s dressing your wound. She healed you. She helped you! It’s alright, Thorin—“

The snarl lessened somewhat as Thorin’s eyes drifted away from Tauriel and … more in Bilbo’s direction, though not traveling far enough to meet the worried blue eyes. He stared toward the fireplace again, his hand arrested in mid movement.

Bilbo took that hand and, without conscious thought, kissed it again and again, his eyes on Thorin’s face. He saw the thin lips move slightly in the now familiar word.

“Yes, yes. I promise,” Bilbo said, kissing the hand again. “I promise. Always.” 

Bombur returned with the honey, and Tauriel mixed the herbs she’d crushed with it and smoothed the potion gingerly onto the wound. Thorin didn’t react to her at all. He continued to stare, and Bilbo continued to hold his hand, and occasionally kiss it. He’d rather lost his concern about appearances at this point.

When the wound was dressed, the Hobbit and the Elf gave each other a long look. Finally, Bilbo spoke. 

“He’ll get better. It just takes time.” He said hopefully.

Tauriel nodded and forced a smile. Then she retreated with an ill-concealed shudder. It was clear she couldn’t wait to get as far from the undead king as possible.


	8. The Bilbo Factor

As soon as Thorin’s chambers could be made ready, he was transferred from the general populace and set up in the largest bed that could be procured. There was no end to the wonders dwarves could produce, create, or appropriate when they were so awash with relief and joy. The walls and floors were scrubbed and decorated. Rich fabrics were found in treasure chests that had not seen air in centuries. And of course, golden accessories and glittering jewels were brought in with abandon. The most solid tables, chairs, shelves, wardrobe, desk, and sundry that could be located in the ruins were brought to the royal chambers. A golden shield with an ancient coat of arms upon it was hung over the fireplace. Candles in golden candlestick holders burned on the mantle. The fireplace itself was cleaned and stoked, the great wooden doors were repaired and re-hung, and at last, the King was deposited gently in his bed, a rich, satiny black robe draped carefully about him, ready to present a dignified invalid to any visitors.

But for the first three days, the Company of dwarves, and their Hobbit, closed ranks around him. They made it known to any emissaries from the land of men, elves, or possibly competitive visiting dwarves, that the King had endured a narrow brush with death, a grave wound, and was in recovery.

Thorin was never alone for a moment. The members of the Company crept in and out of the royal chambers in a constant flow, bringing food, bringing freshly cleaned sheets and towels, bandages and robes, bringing golden trinkets, furs for the bed, bowls of herbs that smell sweet when boiled, anything they could think of to aid in the recovery of their king.

Bilbo was the only one who rarely left. He eventually assumed charge of the rooms, and his naturally domestic ways were universally agreed to be handy when organizing the many offerings, and directing the schedule of the king’s feeding, bathing, and doctoring. He joked that he was The Royal Valet, and no one argued with him.

Thorin’s chest wound improved just rapidly enough to make one wonder if magic had been involved, but not so rapidly as to make one absolutely certain. Dori fashioned a sling for his arm that was a marvel of black satin and golden embroidery. Bilbo determined that white cotton would be better for every day wear, and kept the other for public appearances.

If public appearances would ever be possible.

It was something the Company avoided mentioning in those first few days. Thorin’s body was clearly mending. Bruises faded. Smaller wounds closed and scabbed over. Even the purplish, mottled flesh around the horrid chest wound gradually regained its normal color. But his demeanor had not changed very much. He submitted to their ministrations silently, eyes distant. He still had not eaten solid food, and only the slightest bit of broth had found its way into his system. He moved very little, and very slowly. 

It was not long before the joy at his resurrection was tempered by the unspoken but dawning fear that this … this was Thorin now.

Bilbo in particular was worried, although he hid it with cheerful, busy activity when the others were about. But on the third night, he left Ori and Dori with the resting king and went for a long walk about Erebor.

Much had changed in the days he had been closeted in the royal chambers. The number of wounded in the halls and outer rooms had dropped dramatically, as elves and humans removed to their own lands as soon as they were able. The dwarves of Dain’s company had been active in helping to clear away the bodies of the enemies, and the rocks and wreckage that had blocked so much of the main entrance. 

Bilbo noticed with amusement that the mountains of gold were already shifting into recognizable piles of identifiable category. Coins were here, jewels were there, medals over yonder. He was staring down at a pile of golden goblets when raised voices and hurrying feet drew his attention.

Ori was running from the kings’s chambers, his face a mask of anguish. “Where’s Gandalf? Where’s the Elf? It’s Thorin! He’s fading, he’s fading fast, he’s cold! Oh, Bilbo, where is Gandalf??”

Bilbo, immediately focused, shook his head and then said, “Check the terraces,” before sprinting back to the royal chamber. _If I have to drag you back again, I will,_ he vowed mentally as he raced toward Thorin’s rooms. 

Within, he found a gathering of dwarves in a silent, tragic circle around the bed. Bilbo pushed through and clambered right up on to the furs to stare down at the figure that lay ensconced there. Ori was right, he was fading. There was no other word for it. White, cold, utterly still, barely breathing.

Without a thought as to appropriateness or appearances, Bilbo flung himself on top of Thorin and burrowed his face into the hair near the dwarf’s right ear.

“Thorin. Thorin, come back,” he whispered. “You have to come back. You have to stay. Stay here with me. Stay with me, Thorin. Thorin!”

Bilbo settled in comfortably and stroked the long hair, continuing his murmurings while they waited for Gandalf.

Beneath him, he felt the king’s chest rise and fall with more assurance. Under his petting, ardent hands, the skin grew warm again, and when Bilbo finally drew back to give a long, searching look at the face he worshiped, he was relieved to see the eyes open and directed up towards him…. Although the expression in those steady eyes seemed somewhat accusing.

“I’m here,” Bilbo said softly. “I’m here, I’m yours, I’m here with you, I’m here to take care of you and serve you, I’m with you…” he kept up the assurances in a steady stream until it seemed the danger had passed.

It was only when he finally meant to draw back, and give the dwarves a chance to see and be reassured, that he realized that Thorin’s free hand, the one that was not in a sling, had wrapped slowly around his waist and held him tightly against the king’s semi-clad form.

Bilbo looked around to see several silent dwarves regarding this development. Gandalf was also there, he was peeved to see. Peeved because the wizard was just standing there, looking at the two of them rather, well, entwined, really, on the bed, and doing nothing to help Thorin.

“That’s amazing,” said Bofur, finally. “All you did was whisper to him and—“ he ended the remark with a demonstrative sweep of his hand.

“Like magic,” Balin said darkly.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Gandalf stepped forward. “I think I need to speak with Bilbo for a moment,” he told the others gently. Slowly, glancing at each other, the other dwarves stepped back from the bed. Balin still had that look that expected the worst. Dwalin was reluctant to leave, and finally went to hover by the fire in the adjoining rooms, clearly intending to be near enough to call for.

When the room was clear, Bilbo sought to wiggle free gently, without disturbing the still-serious wound in Thorin’s chest. But the arm wrapped around him seemed to have turned to warm stone, and the intent blue eyes were still upon him.

Gandalf raised one hand. “Stay there, Bilbo Baggins,” he sighed, and after a flustered moment, Bilbo settled down into the furs and let his head come to rest on Thorin’s uninjured shoulder. Gandalf looked at the two of them with a hint of a smile, and then drew one of the furs over Bilbo, effectively tucking them in together.

Then he grew serious. “Bilbo,” he began, sounding very much as though he were about to impart facts that might be disconcerting. “Bilbo, death is like the ocean,” he began, rather ponderously.

Bilbo squirmed a little to get more comfortable against Thorin’s hard body. “Like the ocean,” he parroted encouragingly.

Gandalf tipped his head a little. “Yes. Yes, it rather is. One could imagine that life is a ship that we are all riding upon, but sooner or later, we all tumble into the ocean, and sink down into a different world. Thorin fell into that ocean.”

Bilbo listened attentively. Gandalf hesitated for a moment, and then continued. “When you jumped in after him, that day in the tomb… I used what powers I had to create a sort of lifeline to pull you back. And when you had gotten your arms around him, I began pulling.”

The Hobbit nodded, waiting, eyes searching the wizard’s weathered face.

“But that lifeline is attached to you, Bilbo, not to Thorin.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened for a moment, but he wasn’t quite able to phrase his burgeoning questions.

“I pulled you back, and you pulled Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf continued. “But he is not fully back on our ship, if you will. If you let him go, he will sink again.”

Bilbo absorbed this. His arms crept carefully around Thorin, who still breathed quietly. His gaze had drifted away, finally, and he had returned to his usual habit of staring blankly before him, his eyes shadowy and brooding under the deep, jutting brow.

“But I didn’t let him go tonight, I just left the rooms to walk around a bit,” Bilbo protested, his face so clear and expressive in contrast.

Gandalf gave an eloquent shrug. “He seems to require your presence.”

Bilbo looked at his own hand, lying intimately on the dwarf’s bare, furred chest. “Every minute?” he questioned rather disbelievingly.

Gandalf looked significantly at him. “You saw for yourself, Bilbo. You leave, and he fades.” Then the wizard added, “Tauriel has mentioned that you seem to have promised him something.”

Bilbo glanced guiltily at him, and then settled his face into Thorin’s shoulder.

There was silence for a moment, other than the crackle of the fire. 

Finally Bilbo cleared his throat and said, “Well, um… when I was down there he seemed to want me to stay with him, and I basically… you know…. Said that if he came back I would be… um…. His forever and would do anything he wanted.”

Gandalf’s eyes grew wide. “You made a pledge in the Underworld?” he spoke very slowly.

Bilbo’s hands suddenly felt a little cold. Gandalf had a way of putting things that made them sound very … serious.

“Well…” he sighed, “he didn’t really seem to want to come back otherwise. And… I almost stayed. I mean… have you ever been there?! You kind of fall into a trance—“

Gandalf was staring at him.

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably and then cuddled closer to his King. “Look, you know, I don’t regret it. He’s worth it. He IS the King, he’s my King now, I suppose, and I think I’d be happy to stay here with him and… you know, help out.”

The arm around him tightened suddenly, and Bilbo looked quickly at Thorin’s face. His lips were moving again in that soundless chant. _Mine. Mine._

Bilbo felt a surge of odd pleasure through him, and brought his hand up to cup the bearded face. “Yes, yes” he whispered eagerly, and couldn’t repress a slight squirm of satisfaction as the movements stopped. It was clear that Thorin understood and was soothed by the renewed promises and reassurances that only Bilbo could give. 

Gandalf regarded them both with concern. Then he took a deep breath and nodded. “I see,” he remarked almost to himself, and then gathered his robes about him.

“You must feel your way from here on, Master Baggins,” he announced in that ponderous, formal way he had. “You are treading where even I have not gone and would not venture. But I wish you well.”

With that, he drew away from Thorin’s bedside and, after conversing quietly with Dwalin in the adjoining room, swept silently out of sight.

Bilbo lay nearly crushed against his king, and quite content with it. He’d barely slept since they’d moved Thorin into the royal chambers, and now it seemed unlikely that anyone would object to him wrapping around his lord and master and drifting off to sleep pressed against him. So he did.


	9. In The Dark

Bilbo was floating in hot darkness. The heat was as enveloping and wonderful as a bath. The scent of incense and musk drifted up into his nose as he burrowed down into the furs on the bed. He was wedged in firmly, held tightly, and felt utterly comfortable, and cared for, and to be honest, fairly aroused. He breathed deeply of the spicy warmth about him, and gradually drifted to semi-wakefulness.

He was wedged between Thorin’s arm and ribs on the side that had not been wounded. One of his legs was thrown across the dwarf’s thighs, and his groin was fairly plastered against the king’s hip. Thorin’s hand was low on Bilbo’s buttocks. Dangerously low, to be specific. In fact, one might say his broad, hard palm was clutching one plump cheek very firmly, and at least one finger was… rather buried. In between. Them.

Bilbo couldn’t prevent a tiny noise from escaping his throat. The fire in the fireplace was little more than embers now, and he could make out the large but still form of Dwalin dozing, nearly buried in fur, near the hearth. But the surly bald dwarf never stirred, and Bilbo smothered any further moans as best he could.

He was really packed in tightly. That hip, he was straddling it, basically. Almost riding it, that’s how wide apart his legs were, one on the bed and the other stretched over Thorin. Bilbo became aware that he was very hard, and hot, and that the hand on his buttocks was essentially forcing him to grind his hardness into Thorin’s hip.

In shame, Bilbo tried to draw away. Only then did he notice that his hand, which had rested on Thorin’s furred chest, was now in the tight grip of the dwarf’s other hand. The one in the sling, which was tied near his chest to prevent him disturbing his wound, had found Bilbo’s wrist and latched onto it with the same possessiveness that had marked his few actions since his re-awakening.

“Oh,” breathed Bilbo, coming fully awake now and taking full stock of his situation. His left arm was pinned beneath him and Thorin. His right was held fast in the king’s grip. His legs were sprawled around those hips and there were at least two fingers digging with unmistakable pressure into a very intimate – “Mm!” he gave a panicked, but quiet, hum as the hand gradually tightened its grip on his round cheek. Like a vise, it was! And those fingers just seemed to almost *push*. 

The Hobbit couldn’t control a squirm, and then another. Squirming against that hip felt terribly good. And the unrelenting hand behind him seemed to demand that he spread his legs wider yet, and plant himself harder and more directly against that unyielding flesh. That hand also seemed to gain a deeper, more insistent advantage with Bilbo’s every helpless, obedient movement.

“Oh, God,” he breathed, and then tipped his head back to look up at Thorin’s face in the shadows. He couldn’t see if the large eyes beneath that jutting brow were opened or not, but he suspected they were. A definite smile curved those thin lips. Thorin’s head was turned toward him, and Bilbo was sure he was watching the trapped and aroused Hobbit writhe in the grip of those large hands. 

Bilbo panted quietly, unsure if he was doing something terribly wrong, or if Thorin was doing something terribly wrong to him. The fingers on his backside dug in and tightened further, until the grip was nearly, nearly painful. In response, he ground himself ardently against that hip, and found himself drawing his bent leg higher still, as if to allow greater access to the sensitive center those fingers already pressed into.

“Oh, please,” he breathed, not even sure what he was begging for. The hand on his wrist tightened still more, letting him know that he was most definitely not free to withdraw. Bilbo squirmed again, practically throbbing now.

“Mine,” came the faintest whisper. He could actually hear it this time, hear the breath escape the lips. In a frenzy of submissive ecstasy, Bilbo ground and rubbed himself against Thorin, smothering his whimpers against the warm, naked flesh of the dwarf’s chest. 

“Yes, yes, yours,” he whispered, feeling the thick fingers’ rigid, encroaching pressure parting him through the thin fabric of his trousers. He buried his face practically in Thorin’s armpit and rutted against his hip, biting his lips to stifle his moans.

He was so close, but … after several frustrated, yearning movements, Bilbo went still in his hot, unyielding cage. Panting into Thorin’s ribs, he lay there for a long, sweetly tormenting moment. Then, experimentally, he drew his bent leg higher still, until his thigh met the hot sword sprouting up from the still dwarf’s groin.

“Oh… oh—“ Bilbo breathed, understanding now. With a cautious glance toward Dwalin’s unmoving form by the hearth, the Hobbit carefully eased himself up until he was lying full upon the reclining king. His own legs wrapped eagerly on either side of Thorin’s hips and he rocked himself slowly against the hard length, rubbing them together lovingly.

Planting his face full on the royal chest, Bilbo mouthed silent kisses adoringly on every inch of flesh he could reach. Behind him, that heavy hand pressed commandingly into his buttocks, causing him to rotate his hips in a manner both wanton and deliciously uncoordinated.

He felt like a doll being roughly handled and manipulated by an unrelenting, selfish will. Spreading his legs wider, he gave himself up utterly to this will, writhing and undulating, rubbing his face into the sweaty flesh, offering his buttocks to the pushing, prodding force that dug into them without pause.

“Yours, yours, I’m yours,” he mumbled, tasting the hot flesh that his face was pressed to.

Finally, after several minutes of frantic, shameless rutting and squirming, a warm wave of almost agonized pleasure shot through him. Bilbo gasped and tensed, clutching his partner’s arms as tightly as he could, grinding compulsively one last time in frantic jerks… and then went limp and compliant in Thorin’s crushing grasp. At the same moment, he felt the hot, muscular form he was straddling give a convulsive, silent shudder. He heard a slight gasp from the parted lips, and nearly fainted with an odd, triumphant spark that shot through his languorous haze at the knowledge that he and Thorin… were lovers now.

It took several long moments before Bilbo could raise his spinning head to check that no movement was forthcoming from the faintly snoring figure by the fireplace. Then, certain that Dwalin had slept through his wanton struggle under Thorin’s fingers, Bilbo worked himself free of the dwarf king’s grasp, and slid weakly from the bed to find a clean towel.

He returned on silent Hobbit feet, and with loving attention, cleaned up the evidence of their activities. When he’d tucked the towel down amongst the others in the basket near the toilet, Bilbo slid back into the bed and crawled up to smooth the rippling dark hair that spread over Thorin’s pillows. Something under his rib cage felt as though it were floating and threatened to carry him up into the air like a feather on the wind. With a little smile on his face, he allowed himself to freely touch that long, sharp nose, the unexpectedly soft beard, and the wide, high forehead.

Bilbo even dropped his head down to press a few shy kisses on those faintly smiling lips. These were liberties he hadn’t dared entertain conscious thoughts of in those long weeks on the journey. He’d settled for admiring his moody, fur-clad leader, and telling himself the aching in his heart was mere sympathy for the dwarves’ plight, and perhaps a bit of hurt at being distrusted and undervalued.

Undervalued no more… cherished, needed, even demanded, Bilbo finally settled himself back in the cradle of Thorin’s arms, ready to promise his adoration and obedience again and again, if it would just keep Thorin alive, and needing him.

He drifted off to sleep again, unaware that the dwarf’s blue eyes were gleaming, half-opened in the darkness, as if he contemplated all the myriad ways he might make the Hobbit demonstrate his utter, unresisting surrender. Again and again.


	10. In The Morning

Bilbo managed to slide away from his sleeping Lord early that morning, before Dwalin awoke and stumbled off to his morning toilet, and before any of the others arrived to observe. When Oin and Gloin presented themselves in advance of breakfast, the Hobbit was fully dressed, hair combed, face scrubbed, and looking like no more than a proper and attentive valet carefully applying a bit of the scented oil that Oin himself had supplied to His Majesty’s streaming hair.

Oin nodded approvingly. “That’s right, Master Baggins. Need to make Master Oakenshield look as well as possible this morning,” he said.

Bilbo glanced up from his task questioningly.

Gloin glanced about and leaned near. “Dain wants an audience with Thorin.”

Bilbo’s hands stopped moving, and he looked down at Thorin, who was awake now, and had turned his face to rest against Bilbo’s thigh as the Hobbit sat at his shoulder, grooming his hair.

Then Bilbo’s clear eyes, worried, returned to the two brothers. The three of them shared a look.

“What does Dain want?” Bilbo ventured.

Oin snorted, “Wants to check and see if we need a new King, I’d say,” he muttered.

Gloin gave an irritated snarl that confirmed it.

Bilbo’s head drew back in affront, and after a moment’s contemplation, he clambered down from the bed. “I see,” he said, and went looking for the black satin robe and richly embroidered sling. When he returned with them, he whispered to Oin and Gloin, “We have to get him sitting up.”

It took the three of them some arranging and consulting, but at length they had piled the pillows high against the headboard, carefully pulled Thorin into a sitting position, leaned him forward and wrapped the black satin robe about him. They gently replaced the sling, covered the still mottled wound, and smoothed the furs about him. 

Bilbo arranged Thorin’s dark, silver-streaked hair in well-kept streams over his shoulders, and when Bombur brought in the breakfast, he sat the tray on Thorin’s lap and began trying to introduce small bits of meat between his lips.

Oin and Gloin watched the king stare unresponsively down at the food for a moment, and then withdrew. At the door, Oin turned. “I’ll bring him shortly,” he warned grimly, and then they left. 

As soon as the two had left, Bilbo turned to Thorin.

“I need you to eat,” he said directly, and held a savory bit of meat to Thorin’s lips. For a long moment, the dwarf king merely stared in the general direction of the meat, but eventually his eyes drifted up to meet Bilbo’s, and he parted his lips.

Bilbo was nearly wild with elation! This was improvement! He’d actually moved his eyes with almost reasonable speed. His lips were open.

“Good, good,” Bilbo whispered, putting the bit of meat into Thorin’s mouth. “My King, my Love, my Lord and Master,” he rambled breathlessly, “just eat, just eat… I’ll be your slave forever if you’ll just eat….”

Thorin chewed slowly, the first solid food since his awakening. His eyes rested on Bilbo with a steady, almost shrewd look in them.

“Anything you ever want, just eat,” Bilbo breathed, watching the King swallow with rapt attention. He popped another tiny morsel in the dwarf’s accepting mouth. Then he picked up Thorin’s limp hand and pressed it ardently to his own lips.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said… and then the door opened behind him.

Oin stepped in, looking as though there was someone behind him that was hanging back.

“Dain Ironfoot of the Iron Hills would have a word with His Majesty, Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor,” he announced solemnly, and then gave Bilbo a wry look, “… in private.”

Bilbo sat away from Thorin and waited for a moment before he realized that… Dain had meant that he, Bilbo, should not be there.

Wait, what?

Why, that was….

Of all the ….

_WELL!_ Bilbo thought, sliding from the bed, his face stiff with outrage. He supposed that Oin and Gloin were allowed to remain, being cousins and all. They weren’t the ones who’d thrown themselves in front of rampaging Orcs to save him, and they certainly didn’t go down into the Underworld and bargain themselves into eternal servitude in order to bring back his soul, but, well, in the scheme of things that was probably nothing in comparison to having a few diluted drops of Noble Blood!

Bilbo was seething.

He marched from the bedside and retreated into the adjoining room, feeling very much like Dwalin must have felt when Gandalf had wanted a word alone.

The Hobbit glowered at the ashes of last night’s fire for a long moment… before he remembered The Ring. 

His head snapped up. The Ring. Of course. A smile plumped up his cheeks.

Without the slightest pretense at internal struggle or moral conundrums, Bilbo slipped on the Ring, watched the rooms waver into unreality, and trotted swiftly and silently back into the Royal Bedchamber to keep a very close eye on Dain Ironfoot.


	11. Charade

Dain stood formally at the foot of the bed, and Oin and Gloin stood at bland attention at its side. Thorin’s breakfast still reposed casually on the tray across his lap, and Bilbo was heartened to see him still sitting, having not slumped one way or another, and … his piercing eyes were actually turned toward Dain. 

That was good. He looked far more present than he had since… since.

Bilbo tiptoed behind Dain and approached the bed from the opposite side that Oin and Gloin guarded. He eyed the furs, wondering if he could scramble up without telltale indentations and movements of their shining folds. Probably not.

“I am relieved to see you looking so well, Cousin,” Dain began rather stiltedly, his eyes probing Thorin’s face. It was clear he had his own notions about those who come back from the dead and don’t say a word to anyone.

Thorin stared at him blankly. 

The Hobbit’s eyes searched Dain’s face. Oh yes, he was definitely contemplating the possibility that Thorin would never be fit enough again to rule. Bilbo’s protective urges felt like spikes shooting out of his spine.

Dain paused, as if waiting for a reply, and then opened his mouth to follow up the remark. 

Suddenly, a tap at the door revealed Bombur, come to collect the breakfast tray.

Bilbo took his chance while the others turned to look, and scrambled up onto the bed to position his invisible himself at Thorin’s side.

Bombur approached the bed and inquired politely, “Shall I?”

Without the slightest forethought, Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s right hand and held it up, quickly manipulating the fingers straight and the palm outward in the universal, “Wait,” motion.

All four dwarves jumped slightly in a perfectly synchronized startle response, and then froze. It looked for all the world as though Thorin had moved of his own accord.

Bombur, wide-eyed, backed away and nodded eagerly. “Oh, just as you like, your majesty,” he managed, keeping rather admirable form before Dain. He turned and made for the door, only glancing back once in a bedazzled manner.

Bilbo carefully lowered the hand to rest on the edge of the tray.

There was a long moment rife with muted excitement. Then Dain returned his attention to Thorin.

“We were very grieved when we thought we’d lost you,” he said solemnly.

Bilbo looked anxiously to see if Thorin might respond himself, but Thorin looked rather like he was staring at his own hand in perplexity. Gingerly, Bilbo placed a hand under the dwarf king’s chin, and the other carefully on the back of his head, and manipulated his head into a single, regal nod.

Then he leaned close to Thorin’s ear and breathed, “Look at him.”

Slowly, the blue eyes came up to direct themselves at Dain Ironfoot once more, and after a moment, a slight smile appeared on Thorin’s lips. He looked mildly amused at the Hobbit’s machinations.

Dain waited for a verbal response, but Gloin stepped forward to offer in an undertone that the King had suffered an injury to the lung and would probably not be able to speak for some weeks.

_Oh, well done,_ Bilbo thought, looking at him appreciatively through the wavery world that the Ring produced. Maybe that royal blood was good for something after all.

Dain nodded understandingly, though his eyes were still narrowed far too sharply for Bilbo’s liking. 

“I also wish to offer my condolences on the loss of your two fine nephews,” he added.

Bilbo waited to see if there would be any organic response from Thorin, but seeing none, he brainstormed for a second, and then lifted the heavy hand again, maneuvering it to the dwarf’s fine forehead, as if he were shading his eyes in grief, or touching his fingers to an aching mind.

He held the pose for a moment, but in leaning over, became unsure of his balance and lowered the hand again, very slowly. He wished he was adept enough at this puppet-mastery to create more concrete effects, but perhaps, for now, the vague gestures would be interpreted generously.

Oin gaped for a moment, and then said, “I believe we have tired His Majesty…?”

Dain nodded understandingly and stepped back. “I will return to my camp now,” he stated, and though his eyes were still speculative, he seemed to accept that Thorin, Ruler of Erebor, was indeed alive, conscious, mending, and had at least some of his wits about him.

Bilbo risked tipping one more gracious nod out of Thorin, and then, as Dain retreated with polite solemnities to Oin and Gloin, the Hobbit slipped out of the bed, pattered noiselessly back into the other room, and pulled off the Ring with a bit of a relieved huff. 

He’d never entirely liked the wavery world of Invisibility.

When he was certain Dain had gone, Bilbo tucked his fingertips casually into the pockets of his vest and sauntered calmly back into the room.

“How did it go?” He asked innocently.

Oin and Gloin both looked heartened and relieved. “I think he’s getting better,” Gloin opined, and Oin nodded slowly, as if not entirely sure what he’d just witnessed, but willing to take it on its face, at least for now.

“Yes,” he added. “Thorin seemed to understand the need for… effort.”

Bilbo nodded too, and they all regarded each other with hope. Then Bilbo said briskly, “Alright then! Let’s see if I can get a bit more breakfast down him.” The other two exchanged another look of cautious optimism, and departed. 

Bilbo settled happily back at Thorin’s side, snuggling in comfortably and bringing a morsel of warm, buttery biscuit to his master’s lips.

“That was wonderful,” he told the dwarf quietly. “If you eat just a bit more, I’m going to slide down there and kiss your feet over and over. First the tops, and then the sides, and the toes… and then I’m going to press my face to the very soles of your feet and worship you as the ruler of my destiny…”

Thorin opened his mouth instantly, and Bilbo popped the bit of biscuit in.

“My liege,” he whispered, and stroked his king’s arm adoringly.


	12. The King's Preferences

That afternoon, Bilbo, though still rather pleased with his little trick to keep Dain at bay, came the conclusion that one could not rely on tricks forever. He was fixing himself a nice tea by the fire when suddenly a new goal occurred to him: coaxing Thorin out of the bed and onto his feet. 

Bilbo set the tea to steep, lay the scones out most attractively, folded the napkins daintily… and then advanced determinedly upon the bed where Thorin lay resting, his head turned in Bilbo’s direction, his eyes open but distant. 

The Hobbit considered him for a moment, climbed up onto the bed, and then with slow, careful movements, drew the furs from the dwarf’s legs and began lavishing his large, white feet with sensuous kisses that truly came from the heart. In fact, he quite enjoyed cradling each foot with his hands, closing his eyes, and mouthing those well-shaped arches. He pressed his face to the soles and sank his teeth very gently into the fleshy bottoms, and rubbed his cheeks against them luxuriously.

When he opened his eyes, Thorin was staring down at him with so rapt and satisfied a gaze, the Hobbit felt as if he were riding a heady wave of … something. Something he couldn’t quite identify. He stopped trying to identify it and slipped from the bed, pulling the king’s legs around and coaxing him forward until he was standing upright. 

After a moment of considering his options, Bilbo found that if he knelt at Thorin’s feet and reached up with steadying hands on either thigh, the king did not buckle or fall, but rather straightened grandly, locked his knees, and stood staring down at the supplicant figure below him with gloating eyes.

It soon became apparent, though, that coaxing Thorin into further effort required more extravagant gestures of loving self-abasement.

After managing to maneuver him in halting steps to the chair by the fire, Bilbo tucked the furs around his king and then puttered about him contentedly, combing that wonderful hair with his fingers, neatening the folds of his robes rather fussily. 

He poured them each a cup of tea, slurped his own down quickly, and then came over to his king and lifted the cup to his lips. To his satisfaction, Thorin accepted some tea, and didn’t even spill any down his chin. Progress, see?

Bilbo beamed at him, and then put the cup back on the table. He was just about to suggest a scone, when Thorin made a restless movement with one leg that seemed to Bilbo to denote an interest in further foot worship. 

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He asked good-naturedly. “Say, I have an idea…” 

Bilbo went to the dresser where Oin had brought his many lotions and scented oils in his desire to contribute whatever he could to Thorin’s comfort. Bilbo sniffed several of them appreciatively, and then settled on one with a sweet, musky flavor.

He returned to Thorin and knelt before him on the thick rug before the fire. Taking one large foot into his lap, Bilbo briskly poured some of the oil into his hands, rubbed them together to warm them, and then began massaging the oil onto the royal foot with slow, sensuous strokes.

He glanced up and, assured by the hooded blue eyes and growing smile that this indeed was pleasing his king, he smiled back and dedicated himself to adoring that foot thoroughly. For a long, companionable interval, Bilbo knelt happily there, lavishing his regard on the king’s left foot, and ankle, and the sturdy calf. Then he put it down and brought the right one into his lap, pouring more oil onto his hands. He heard the dwarf give a deep sigh of enjoyment and felt his heart fill with a sort of possessive satisfaction.

 _You think I’m yours, but really, you’re mine,_ he thought, gazing up at the intense face above him. _I saved you, twice. I keep you here. I see to your every need. You’re mine._

Their eyes locked and gradually the look of sleepy satisfaction left Thorin’s eyes, to be replaced by a look of intent. Suddenly Bilbo realized that the foot he was caressing was pushing toward him. Thorin was straightening his leg and seemed to want to push the Hobbit down farther. He was already on his knees, so Bilbo spread his legs, sat completely on the floor between them, and then brought his legs around in front of him.

“Is this better?” He asked, still holding the well-oiled right foot in his warm hands.

Thorin’s smile grew a touch. Bilbo felt the foot push in and down until it was between his legs and resting… well… right on … there.

“Oh.” He said with an answering smile. “I see.”

He caressed the top of the foot affectionately while the sole pressed harder against his increasing erection. His smile faded as the blood rushed to his face and to his swelling member. There was something terribly subservient, yet erotic, about sitting at Thorin’s feet while the king encroached upon his person in this arrogant manner. 

After a moment of charged silence, Bilbo watched as Thorin slowly lifted his other foot and placed it carefully against Bilbo’s shoulder. Then he began to push at the Hobbit steadily.

“What, you want…? You want me to lay back?” Bilbo asked, swallowing as he tried to keep the panting arousal out of his voice. He lay back compliantly. Now he was flat on his back. One of the king’s feet settled on the Hobbit’s thigh, and the other continued its slow rub between them.

Bilbo lay, biting his lip to keep from moaning. Thorin stared darkly down at him with an unmistakable smirk and pushed a bit harder. Bilbo cradled the molesting foot with his hands and arched against it.

“You like this—“ he whispered. “You like seeing me like this?”

Thorin’s bushy eyebrows lifted slightly, as if to say, _can you doubt it?_

Bilbo hesitated for a turgid moment, and then abandoned caution and fumbled to open the front of his trousers. He nearly let out a cry of relief as the warm, well-oiled foot slid almost roughly across his sensitive, rigid flesh. He arched and squirmed against it, his legs opening wider. Soon he was lost in sensation. Thorin’s foot was just calloused enough to abrade him slightly, but oiled enough that the texture was maddeningly erotic. And he moved very slowly. Bilbo worked his hips desperately, trying to speed up the friction, but Thorin refused to cooperate. He seemed to want the Hobbit wildly aroused and unable to climax.

After long moments of frantic, frustrated rutting, Bilbo realized that Thorin was taking pleasure in delaying and thwarting him. Rather than get angry, the thought was an added jolt of significance.

Bilbo brought himself under control and took his hands from Thorin’s foot. He pushed his own trousers further open, pulled his shirt up a bit, and then stretched his own arms up over his head as if they were tied. Then he lay, passively gazing up at Thorin, awaiting his pleasure.

The king’s blue eyes dilated and his mouth opened in silent approval. His foot resumed its insolent tormenting, the other foot pinning the Hobbit’s thigh tightly to the floor. Bilbo tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and lay as obediently still as he could bear to while Thorin teased him in this degrading, deliciously obscene manner. And he wallowed in every shameful minute of it. Just knowing Thorin stared down at him as he lay helplessly accepting this bizarre treatment made him weak inside.

The slow, sliding friction continued relentlessly for long, silent minutes. The reddening flesh pinned beneath that foot grew harder and more sensitive until finally Bilbo lost his ability to lie still, and he felt the orgasm rise up in him as he began convulsing against that large, heavy foot. He brought his hands down, grasped it feverishly, ground up against it, crying, “Please! Please—“ and then came with almost painful force.

Bilbo curled around Thorin’s foot, panting on the floor for what seemed like several minutes. Finally his head stopped spinning and his heart rate slowed, and he was able to shakily pull himself together, rise, and rather limp back over to where the towels were kept. It occurred to him that he should just keep one over his shoulder at all times.

When he’d cleaned himself off, and wiped off Thorin’s toes, he risked a look up at the stony face. Thorin was watching him, and one of his hands had moved to rest between his own strong thighs.

Understanding immediately, Bilbo came up on his knees and reached to part the black satin robe. Thorin’s arousal sprang free to meet Bilbo’s ardent tongue, and after a moment of gathering his courage, Bilbo opened his mouth and accepted it. Experimentally, he licked and sucked it, hearing the dwarf’s breathing speed up with satisfaction. Even his body heat increased. Bilbo took as much in his mouth and throat as he could, bobbing his head and moving his fingers down between those spread thighs. He teased and suckled wetly, hearing Thorin’s breath catch again and again. He felt the dwarf’s heavy hands settle upon his neck and shoulders, felt his king curl over his own curly head. And when the breathing stopped and the shuddering began, Bilbo clamped down and pulled until he had sucked every bit of ecstasy out of his lover and swallowed it down. Thorin slumped in exhaustion.

After a moment of mutual breathing, Bilbo stood, calmly folded the robes back over Thorin’s thighs, grabbed a small lap blanket and draped it across the royal lap, and gently pushed the king back to an upright position in the chair. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then Bilbo said, “Mine,” quite matter-of-factly.

Thorin’s eyes crinkled up as he gave the first full, wide smile since his return. Bilbo smirked back at him, stroking his hair lovingly. A knock on the door made him draw back, and a moment later, without waiting for permission, Dwalin entered with a load of firewood.

Bilbo returned to his valet duties, bringing a footstool around and propping Thorin’s scented feet on it, and carefully draping the blanket down to cover them. He was reflecting, however, on how mortified he would have been if Dwalin had showed up two minutes earlier.

That was when Bilbo decided to start locking the door before certain procedures. It just seemed wiser.


	13. Not Yet/Not Ever

By week’s end, there was no question but that the King was improving, physically. The Company of Dwarves was rather in awe of Bilbo’s ability to coax bits of food into His Majesty’s mouth, to draw him by the hands from the bed and balance him on his feet, and even lead him in slow, lurching steps to the toilet, the bath, and the chair by the fire.

It was a tempered joy compared to the ecstasy they’d first felt upon his re-awakening in the tomb. In those first hours, their concern had been for his body. Heal the body, they’d begged Tauriel and Gandalf. It had not occurred to them that mind or soul were in any way compromised. But the stupor he’d remained in for the first 24 hours gradually imposed itself on their consciousness, and now the inner circle of loyal dwarves had come to accept that, mentally, Thorin was not the same as he was.

“Not yet,” Bilbo would interject whenever he overheard any muttered consternation.

But the company was showing signs of slowly dividing into two camps: the Not Yet camp, and the Not Ever camp.

Gandalf announced that he needed to pay a few brief visits to the North, and vanished one fine morning. Tauriel, having ascertained that Thorin’s wound was healing well enough to respond to simple cleanliness and monitoring, retreated with obvious relief for the Woodlands.

The remaining denizens of Erebor set about rehabilitating the Kingdom with fervor. Dain lingered, offering advice that sounded suspiciously like imperatives. Oin was more truly the leader, taking the advice and asserting that of course he must consult with Thorin first. 

Balin came only once to the royal chambers, and the old dwarf did not venture too near the bed. Like Tauriel, he was morbidly uneasy around the reanimated King, and though he voiced no dark thoughts, it was clear to Bilbo that to Balin, the King had died a week ago.

Bilbo shrugged the thought from his mind. It was clear to him that Thorin was improving, if only in his ability to communicate to Bilbo what pleased him. If Bilbo was not particularly attentive to the discontented rumblings of certain dwarves, it was undoubtedly because of his increasing involvement in the private dynamic between him and Thorin.

And the dynamic was growing private indeed. Several times a day, Bilbo felt compelled to lock the doors to the chamber, and undertake the negotiations he needed to in order to get Thorin to exert himself.

Some of the things that Thorin liked to do were… well, a little unusual in Bilbo’s book. For instance, he took more than a passing interest in the Hobbit’s round buttocks, and seemed quite fond of waiting till Bilbo had rubbed oil or lotion onto the royal hands to then reach out. The slowly opened arms were an invitation Bilbo could not resist, but he soon learned to loosen his trousers before stepping into those arms. Because the large, oiled hands seemed to know just where they wanted to go. Down the back of Bilbo’s trousers. Onto his buttocks. In between them, pushing and teasing.

And Thorin was soon an expert in using the weight of his large arms and a slight shifting of his torso to help Bilbo understand that he would best turn and bend over the royal knee, maybe drop those trousers completely, and let the king touch and press his most sensitive areas until he was flushed and dizzy with arousal. It was a tremendously embarrassing posture, and Thorin moved with such slow, measured movements that Bilbo would be begging for some sort of relief for several minutes before his master would allow him to rise. And sometimes no relief was allowed for a while! Thorin seemed to enjoy making the blushing Hobbit rub himself against one large hand while his king watched intently. Then, of course, it was only right to kneel down and pay homage in return. It was a very strange relationship, Bilbo admitted, pulling his trousers back up over his trembling legs. But it kept him on his toes, no question.

Meanwhile, the dwarves, who were not privy to Bilbo’s tactics to get Thorin to respond, were developing their own responses to this eerily silent, unresponsive new version of Thorin. The Not Yet camp had the most adherents, but the Not Ever camp had the strongest personalities. It consisted, not surprisingly, of Balin, Dwalin, and increasingly, Gloin. Though Bifur said little, he seemed to listen to these three and nod a great deal.

The rest maintained a hopeful mien, but none of them could ignore the increasing pressure from Dain to “collaborate” with Thorin on the ruling of Erebor. There were issues to be decided. Guilds formed, payments made, contracts to be negotiated and signed with men of Laketown (now mostly settling in Dale). The Elves still issued notifications of closing quibbles about their payment, and requests for exact accountings of diamonds in the gold caches under the mountain. Refugees lingered, as well as Dain’s armies, and there were matters of supplies, food, bedding, storage, renumeration, claims, grievances, and all manner of details to be sorted out.

Oin was coping as best he could. Dwalin was always a supporting presence hovering behind Oin. His loyalty was to the Company and he was clearly ready to act as law enforcement under Oin’s direction if necessary. Ori acted as scribe, and keeping exact records of all transactions gave the entire endeavor an air of at least being organized. Nori did a great deal of cheerful negotiating and mediating, and showed rather a talent for it. But they were clearly feeling the pressure.

Oin finally came to Bilbo, who was smoking a pipe by the fire one evening as Thorin sat and watched him calmly. Occasionally, Bilbo would put the stem to Thorin’s lips, and he would part them and take a gentle puff, blinking at the smoke. 

Bilbo turned when Oin entered. The old dwarf stood for a moment, stroking the swooping silver braids of his magnificent beard. Then he gave Thorin a polite nod and cleared his throat. He seemed uncertain whether to address his king, or Bilbo. It was evident that Oin had a request to make.

Bilbo waited for a moment, and then startled up out of his chair, remembering his manners. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, would you like to sit down? I can bring another chair over here… enjoy a pipe with us?”

“No, no… thank you, Master Baggins…” Oin said, and then added hesitantly, “I was just thinking that I look forward to seeing our king on his throne some day soon.”

Ah. That was clearly a hint. Thorin had been lounging around in his pajamas for 10 days now, and perhaps his grace period was over. The people needed to see him in full regalia, striding about, scowling his moody scowl. They needed to hear him occasionally rasp out a command or two.

Bilbo fiddled with his pipe. “Yes. Well, I’m sure we all do.”

Oin regarded the king for a moment, who had not responded, and then turned to Bilbo.

“That’s just it, Master Baggins. I’m not sure we all do.”

Bilbo froze. Then he swallowed and stepped forward, lowering his voice. “What do you mean by that?” he rapped out edgily.

“There is … concern amongst some of the other members of the company,” he explained painfully, still glancing at Thorin out of the corner of his eyes.

“Yes, well, I’m sure there is.” Bilbo managed, trying to keep a lid on his surging temper. For anyone to come and upset his king made all the Hobbit’s protective instincts surface instantly. “But he endured a great deal. Azog cut him to pieces, he… he was dead, for Heaven’s sake! He… he fought his way back… to help his people and they can’t give him two weeks to recover?”

Oin turned away and paced for a moment. Then he came to a halt near Thorin, who sat with head tipped, looking rather as if he were listening, but not concerned enough to lift his gaze from the floor. Oin turned to Bilbo and spoke with an air of one saying something they felt had better be said.

“There’s those who think that the current Thorin is not the Thorin they would like to have remembered.” Oin explained carefully.

Bilbo’s face drained of blood and for a moment he was dizzy with rage. They wished him dead again? 

He was staggered. They wished Thorin had stayed in the tomb?!

They wished him nobly dead on the battlefield, laid to rest with his sword on his chest, a poignant sight to say good-bye to… and then a legend to sing about over ale, as they moved cheerfully on without him? The king who had led them through the months of perilous journey, through dangers and wastelands, who fought so bravely and believed so ardently… had he outlived his usefulness to these short-sighted ingrates?

It was all the Hobbit could do to stutter an outraged reply. “H-how can you say that?! How can you stand there right in front of him and say that. You… he can hear you, you know!”

Oin looked sadly over at Thorin. “Can he?”

There was an interval where the only sound was the crackling of the fire, as Bilbo glared, trembling, at Oin, and Oin regarded Thorin.

Suddenly, Thorin drew in a deep breath and issued forth, in a cracked and raspy baritone, the words, “I can… hear you.”

Bilbo whirled, dropped his pipe to the floor, and flew to his king’s knees. Oin looked ready to do the same, but settled for taking a few steps closer and reaching out, wide-eyed, to gingerly touch one of Thorin’s shoulders.

“Oh! Oh!” Bilbo could do little other than grab Thorin’s hand and kiss it in fervent admiration and gratitude.

Thorin’s eyes drifted to Bilbo and he smiled again. Then he settled back into his usual stillness, and no questions from Oin brought forth any follow up response. But Bilbo and Oin, at least, were heartened.

Oin finally straightened up and gave Bilbo a brisk nod, and then went to share the news with the others. Thorin had spoken! 

At the door, Oin turned back for one last gaze at his king. He looked very much like himself, but in repose. Alive, definitely, but… not all there yet. _Not yet,_ he reminded himself, and turned to exit.

Bilbo followed after him for a moment. “Tomorrow,” he suggested breathlessly. “We’ll get him dressed in full, we’ll bring him to the throne, and then we’ll open the doors of the throne room and let a few petitioners come to see him.”

Oin looked thoughtful. “We can’t let them talk to him directly. We’ll set up a… an area not too close to the throne. Very formal. All of us there, even Dain… you know he’ll insist—“

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded eagerly. “Yes, fine, good! Full armor, a court presentation. Petitioners and well-wishers can address you, and then you come to Thorin and relay the request to him. I’ll be beside him—“

Oin interrupted. “Are you sure that’s wise? It’ll look like you’re claiming an advisory position—“

“No, no, I’ll sit… more by his feet. Like a page,” Bilbo suggested, not feeling the slightest embarrassment about accepting such a lowly position. “I won’t say or do anything that looks like advising, I’ll just be there. He likes to have me there.”

Oin paused and then nodded. Yes. They were all very aware how much Thorin needed Bilbo nearby. “Very well, Master Baggins. I’ll go right now and see about setting it up.” He turned then, and swept out the door.

Bilbo locked the door behind him, turned, and crawled right into Thorin’s lap like a large cat. Overcome, he snuggled in and kissed Thorin’s neck over and over, and the dwarf’s eyes grew heavy-lidded, and his hands came up to cradle his Hobbit against his chest. Bilbo did not urge Thorin to speak again. He could speak. He heard. He understood. That was all anyone needed to know.


	14. Preparing For a Morning at Court

Bilbo woke up the next morning cuddled against his sleeping king. He pulled back and scrubbed at his face for a moment, and then hopped quickly from the bed. So much to do, so little time. But it was imperative that the dwarves of Erebor and the soldiers from the Iron Hills see Thorin on his throne looking responsive. Bilbo washed and dressed himself quietly, and crept to the door.

At the click of the bolt, Thorin’s eyes opened and he moved his head on the pillow to stare accusingly at the Hobbit. Bilbo tripped back to his bedside quickly, and kissed Thorin’s hand reassuringly.

“I’ll be right back, my ruthless captor!” He said with a little grin. “I’m just going to check on the preparations for your first appearance.” He rubbed his Hobbity nose against the back of Thorin’s hand adoringly.

Thorin quirked his lip at one corner. Bilbo took that to mean _Very funny. You have five minutes._ He kissed the hand again, knowing Thorin enjoyed those entreating gestures (and frankly he couldn’t help himself.) Then he scampered out the door. 

Dwalin hovered in the hall outside the rooms most mornings, acting as unofficial guard unless Oin needed his glowering force. Bilbo was reluctantly glad to see him, as he was unwilling to leave Thorin unattended. 

“I’ll be right back,” Bilbo said lightly. “If Bombur comes with breakfast, tell him I’ll return shortly to help.” 

Dwalin shot him a suspicious glance but didn’t bother to respond. To Dwalin, Bilbo had always retained a taint of the unsavory. A burglar, the thief of the Arkenstone, and now suspiciously involved, along with a wizard and an elf, in the imperfect reanimation of a king who had died a noble death and left behind a glorious legacy. That legacy was in danger of being forgotten with the lingering presence of a lifeless human doll. 

Had Thorin returned to his old self immediately, of course, Dwalin would have been worshipfully grateful and fiercely proud of him. But he didn’t. The entire thing had an unwholesome tinge of sorcery and manipulation. Dwalin didn’t like it. He stood guard over Thorin now as an honor guard hoping to prevent the despoiling of the body of his king. But he had no hope of ever seeing the real Thorin Oakenshield again.

Bilbo waited for a moment, looking up at the stoic Dwalin, for some acknowledgement of his directives. Seeing that none was forthcoming, he finally shrugged and went in the direction of the throne room.

Walking about Erebor was always rather awe-inspiring, and the Hobbit’s feet slowed as he strolled into the throne room, staring appreciatively at the improvements Oin had made. The mountains of gold had been somewhat diminished by the cartloads distributed to Bard’s contingent and Thranduil’s army.

Dain’s people had also been allotted a share. Some of the gold had simply been moved to more appropriate places: Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur had taken charge of the kitchens, and anything gold that could be used (plates, bowls, goblets, candlestick holders) had been organized and relocated in the pantries and shelves down there. 

Oin and his group of helpers had been at work, Bilbo realized, well in advance of his visit the previous day. The throne had been cleaned and a long red and gold carpet leading to its foot had been placed. The space where the Arkenstone should rest had been dug free of dust and broken concrete, and two dwarves were in the process of reinserting the glowing stone.

Bilbo felt a spark of unease at the sight. Thorin had not seen the Arkenstone since his return from the dead. Bilbo had forgotten all about the damn thing, to be honest, and wondered what response, if any, his king would have to it. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps this should have been tested in advance. But it was too late now.

Oin hurried up to Bilbo and began showing him the plans for the grand reveal.

“I have ropes here,” he pointed out, and Bilbo admired the heavy red ropes that indicated a point on either side of the red carpet beyond which petitioners and visitors should not encroach.

“We’ll have Dwalin and Gloin on either side here, in full armor with ceremonial weapons—The rest of the company are going to sit in these seats….” Oin gestured toward the heavily carved chairs that sat on either side of the red carpet, facing it, between the visitors’ section and the throne. “Dain has already accepted the invitation he was sure I was about to issue,” he added, shooting the Hobbit a significant look from under the silver wings of his brows.

Bilbo nodded understandingly. Dain was still an issue, clearly.

Oin continued. “Then I’ll receive guests one by one at this podium—“ he pointed to a podium off to the side that was still being shined by Dori (who gave him a quick, cheerful wave.) “We’ll put it here,” he added, pointing.

Bilbo looked at all the arrangements and nodded. It looked good. There was a path from the great doors that led toward the throne, a viewing area that was decent, but not too close. Seating. The throne was still damaged and cracked, but no one would be expecting otherwise. Once again, it occurred to Bilbo that having dwarves who had some familiarity with royalty and court procedures had its value. Hobbits had no ceremonies and traditions of this type, and creating such a display was not really in his line. He was more the domestic arrangements type, he admitted to himself. If you want a nice tea, come to the Shire. If you want magic and mystery, ask for an elf. And if you need some pomp and circumstance, dwarves were the ones to turn to, clearly.

“Um… alright… so shall we set the time for about three hours from now?” Bilbo suggested, and Oin nodded. 

“Oh,” added the old dwarf, “Look,” he pointed to the corner where reposed a large golden harp.

“Oh my, that is… that is something,” Bilbo admitted. “Can anyone play it?”

“Bofur can stroke it well enough to add an air to the proceedings,” Oin said.

Bilbo nodded approvingly. “Well. Imagine that. Good. But. You know. That hat—“

Oin rolled his eyes. “Yes, that hat has got to go. I told him already. There’s a whole pile of golden helmets over there. We’ll put one on him, shouldn’t be hard.”

Bilbo grinned at the thought. Then something occurred to him.

“Say, may I suggest one more thing?” He said. “Curtains behind the throne, can you… affix curtains to something solid overhead? I want to have him seated and ready before any visitors enter, but if we have to get him out while there are still witnesses, I don’t want…. I mean… he still doesn’t walk very steadily, and—“

Oin was already nodding his head. “We don’t want them watching him shuffle away as you lead him by the hand.” He said bluntly.

Bilbo reddened a bit. “Well… yes.” He didn’t add his other reason: a visible Hobbit may need to exit (or appear to) and an invisible one might need to re-enter (without appearing to) immediately afterward.

“Done.” Oin said, turning away and clapping his hands briskly.

Satisfied, Bilbo turned and hurried back toward the royal chambers. He was hungry for breakfast, and already his head was beginning to spin at the amount of preparation such an appearance would take. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to get all that dwarven armor on Thorin. It would take three hours to feed and dress him, he was sure.

And beads! The silver beads, the braids! Oh, there was so much to do. He only hoped Thorin wouldn’t decide he desired a little playful humiliation of his devoted slave first. Not that Bilbo was opposed, not on principle. He rather enjoyed it. But time. Time was a factor.


	15. Court

For the next three hours, Bilbo devoted himself to Thorin’s considerable beauty. Neither of them would have thought of it that way, but there was no denying the sensual pleasure Bilbo took in cleaning and trimming the dwarf’s fingernails and then rubbing lotion into his supine hands. No denying the lingering care with which he poured soapy water over the Thorin’s large head as he lay in the great clawed tub with candles all around him. No denying the care with which he squeezed the water out of the wavy tresses, and towel dried them, and rubbed scented oil in starting at the ends and working up into the scalp.

And there was certainly no question how much he enjoyed watching Thorin’s eyes fall closed and his mouth fall open as Bilbo pressed his fingers into the king’s scalp and rotated them firmly in little circles…

 _Mine,_ Bilbo thought. 

When Thorin was clean and extracted from the tub (much foot kissing; he didn’t want to come out) Bilbo wrapped him in towels and began the process of braiding the sections on either side of his head, finishing them with silver and blue beads that he’d chosen himself from the bowl on the mantle.

Ori came in with some papers for Thorin’s perusal, “Just ask him to look them over?” the young dwarf asked uncertainly. Bilbo nodded reassuringly, knowing that really, Oin would look them over, look over to Thorin and say, “I believe these are all in order, your Highness,” and file them as Approved. But it was a ritual that was necessary until Thorin was really in the position to govern. Precedent, you know.

“Do these braids and beads look right?” Bilbo asked Ori as he tidied the papers he’d brought into a pile on the table.

“Very nice,” Ori assured him. “Pity we can’t get a couple into his beard…”

Bilbo stopped and cocked his head. Thorin’s beard was quite short compared to the majestic, beaded wonders of the other dwarves. Even Fili had managed a few beads. It had never really registered before. Now Bilbo turned to Ori.

“Why is his beard so short?” He asked.

Ori averted his eyes. “I think he cut it off when he was mourning his father. I mean, when he finally decided that his father must be…”

Bilbo turned and looked at Thorin’s eyes. They were directed at the wall, as usual, but in the ensuing silence they turned unexpectedly at Ori, with a rather soft look.

Ori met that gaze and grew as still as a trapped bunny. 

Thorin gave him a small smile and then turned his head deliberately away, as if to make it obvious that the moment had not been random.

Ori’s mouth opened and he looked over at Bilbo, who nodded knowingly. _See,_ said the Hobbit’s eyes. _He’s getting better. He hears you._

“Can you help me get him dressed?” Bilbo asked.

Ori’s eyes got wider and a vivid blush came over his young face. “Oh, no, I couldn’t, oh, Master Baggins, how could I … do that I…. I couldn’t… that’s not—“

Bilbo took pity on him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, usually Oin helps me. Um. If you see him?”

Ori nodded and scuttled out of the rooms with such haste he nearly stumbled over the threshold. Bilbo followed him and closed the door behind him, chuckling as he returned to dress the king.

“I think he likes you,” Bilbo said to Thorin, taking his hands and pulling him to his feet. Thorin rose after a moment’s playful resistance.

The Hobbit turned away for a moment, procuring the linen under-drawers to go beneath the heavy black trousers. He brought them back and shucked Thorin’s robe briskly off his shoulders… then he paused. This was the first time Thorin had stood before him, fully naked, on his wide-braced feet, staring down at him… Bilbo swallowed. 

He’d seen most of Thorin, between bathing him, and … well… pleasuring him in odd ways in the still of the night. But. This was the first time seeing the dwarf king standing naked, on his feet, in the light of the fire, eyes open, staring back at him.

Bilbo was a bit gobsmacked for a moment. That long, muscled, scarred torso. The short, powerful legs. He seemed to glory in Bilbo’s sudden, startled appreciation. 

For what seemed like a terribly long time, Bilbo just gazed on Thorin. Then, in a moment of sheer audacity, he wandered quite deliberately behind him to admire the hair cascading down his strong back, which was also scarred, with strange, square interlocking tattoos on his shoulder blades. His eyes traveled over the back and down to the neat, round buttocks. Not as plump as Bilbo’s own, but pleasing to look at, most certainly.

Thorin turned his head as if to sight Bilbo out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly Bilbo couldn’t resist the urge to run a hand over one smooth hip. Thorin was rather thinner now. Bilbo couldn’t be sure, having not seen much nudity during their journey (except the occasional river bath, too full of splashing, naked, roaring dwarves for any close study.) 

“You are the most beautiful king ever to live,” Bilbo told him sincerely, his voice a bit choked in the silence. 

Thorin continued to regard him from the corner of his eye. Bilbo closed his own eyes and let his head fall forward onto Thorin’s arm.

“Thank all the gods you came back,” he murmured impulsively. “Thorin. I couldn’t stand it if you were gone… you mustn’t ever sink down again.”

Thorin made no response, but he was on his feet, and clearly attending to Bilbo’s words and movements. It was enough. Alive. Breathing. Looking at him. Smiling at him. Touching him. More than enough for Bilbo.

 _BUT. Not enough for the dwarves who wanted a King on a Throne,_ Bilbo reminded himself. He stiffened his spine, gave Thorin a pat on the bum, and came around to the front again.

“Now put your hands on my shoulders and lift one foot,” he directed, kneeling down before his king with the under drawers in his hand, and trying to ignore the bits dangling near his face.

After a few minutes of maneuvering and fussing on Bilbo’s part, Thorin stood dressed in black, and Bilbo was debating whether he needed his sling. On one hand, the more healthy and competent he appeared, the better, yes? But on the other, a reminder of what he had been through might buy them some leeway.

Finally it occurred to him to simply ask Thorin rather than continue to dress him like a doll.

“Sling?” He asked, holding it up.

Thorin gazed off over the Hobbit’s head for a moment, moved his arm, winced, and lowered his head with what looked like acceptance.

“Alright then,” Bilbo murmured, and carefully set it over the king’s neck and collar, guiding his arm into it, smoothing and arranging the folds of cloth as he did so.

Then he guided the king to his chair by the fire so that he could be wrestled into the heavy boots that Dwalin, surprisingly, had polished on one of those nights he was brooding by the fire in the adjoining room. 

After this, Bilbo picked through the rather astonishing assortment of jewels that the other dwarves had brought to their rooms. Rings for each hand, naturally. One big silver one set with an opal very reminiscent of the Arkenstone. That seemed right.

Silver ear cuff? Oh, yes, that looked nice.

Bilbo became aware that Thorin was regarding him with amusement.

“How about a pretty tiara?” Bilbo said challengingly, and came forward with a delicate, elven looking … thing.

Thorin’s eyes flashed warningly and he tipped his head back evasively as Bilbo approached.

“Here it comes… here it comes!” Bilbo teased, reaching.

Thorin leaned away further, an unmistakable smirk on his lips.

Bilbo retreated. “Oh alright, if you really don’t like it.” He allowed, and put the tiara back into the bowl.

There was a knock at the door, and Bilbo was relieved to find Oin and Nori there. 

“Thought you might need some help with the armor,” Oin said, and Bilbo gave him a look of wide-eyed gratitude.

“I don’t even know if I could lift it,” he admitted, and stepped aside to let the two dwarves settle Thorin’s armor onto his shoulders, and strap on his sword, and give a last minute polish to the parts most likely to gleam in the right lights.

At last the three of them stood back and admired their work.

Thorin Oakenshield stood before them, in all his glory. _If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know,_ thought Bilbo. _The only difference between now and before, is the sling, and…_

He hesitated, looking into Thorin’s eyes.

There was something different, he had to admit. It wasn’t that something was missing, not at all. Thorin was clearly as aware as he wanted to be. But… all the intensity, all the fierceness… had been replaced by a patience, and a mild amusement. _You want to dress me up and have me play king?_ his eyes seemed to ask. _Very well. We will play king._

Bilbo wasn’t sure if this was better, worse, or just different. And he wasn’t sure if it was temporary or permanent.

Suddenly Bilbo asked himself…. _If this is permanent, if he really doesn’t care anymore… should we be doing it?_

All at once, Bilbo was so struck, so captured by this question, that he paid no attention as Oin and Nori put tentative hands on Thorin and coaxed him to step, one foot after another, until he was across the room, passing Bilbo, and exiting the royal chambers.

Bilbo was left staring at the empty space where Thorin had just stood. _What if Thorin really had not wanted to come back? I mean,_ he thought, _really, really hadn’t cared to come back? Had felt his destiny to have been fulfilled? Was at peace, like Tauriel had said of Kili?_

 _What if I did indeed do the wrong thing?_ Bilbo asked himself.

Now he was ill at the stomach. _But I couldn’t, I couldn’t let him go and not see the future he fought so hard for! Couldn’t let him die so young!_

 _Couldn’t be without him, that’s your real reason,_ whispered a voice in his head, and it sounded a little like the Ring in his pocket, which occasionally told him nasty truths in a quiet voice.

“Bilbo?”

He turned to see Nori hovering at the door. “Um… Thorin won’t go any further and I think it’s because he wants you there.”

“Right,” Bilbo said briskly, snapping back to his duties. It was too late to ask himself what he should have done. He’d done it, and now he had promises to fulfill.

He stepped lively out the door and came to walk in front of Thorin, a humble page clearing the way, letting Oin and Nori walk beside him and support him. Let no one say a Hobbit was leading Thorin by the hand. But happily, only members of the company were in the throne room as they guided Thorin to the throne.

Thorin stopped before it for a moment, and gazed up at the Arkenstone gleaming at the top of the broken throne. Bilbo watched his face nervously. But there was only peace and pleasure on the royal face. No burning intensity, no wild-eyed madness.

After a moment, Thorin lowered his eyes and let his two cousins help him onto the throne. He settled there with a sigh and fell into a posture very like the one he’d held in the Hall of the Ancestors. Bilbo settled on a small stool nearby. The other dwarves took their places. Bofur sat far off near the door, giving desultory plucks of the harp strings that were melodic, unobtrusive, and gave a certain air to the occasion.

Finally, Oin gave a visual check of the tableau, made eye contact with each member of the company to see if everyone was ready, and then nodded to Dwalin, who went in fully armed, grumpy-visaged splendor to open the main doors and allow two dozen carefully selected petitioners (Dain leading the way) to enter the throne room. They entered politely but eagerly, having waited all morning to gaze upon Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, Ruler of Erebor, confronter of dragons, slayer of Azog, leader of armies, King Under the Mountain, returned from the dead and ready to hear complaints about disagreements concerning guild procedural norms, suggested alterations to military advancement decrees, and statues of limitations concerning property disputes.

Bilbo kept the Ring at the ready and settled in to watch.


	16. Aftermath

It was with vast relief that Bilbo saw the last petitioner bow, and bow again, and shake hands with Oin, and Balin, and finally, finally retreat (one last bow!) from the throne room. If they could just get rid of Dain, it would be safe to scoop up his visibly wilting king and return to their bed.

It had gone well, really. The petitioners and well-wishers lined up cooperatively, their best court manners on display. They had presented their paperwork to Oin. Oin had listened to their petitions, nodded attentively, asked a few intelligent questions, and then bade them wait. 

Oin had taken the fifteen paces to the throne, stepped up, displayed the paperwork before Thorin’s eyes, pointed here and there, murmuring clarifications, and made his recommendations. Then they all waited, watching, for some reaction from Thorin.

Bilbo was poised to retreat toward the curtain, pop on the ring, give the curtain a flick as if he’d gone behind it, and then return to grab Thorin by the hair and nod his head for him, but it turned out not to be necessary. Thorin directed his eyes appropriately, tipped his head toward Oin from time to time, occasionally nodded.

Once, he even lifted a slow hand to point at something and raise his eyebrows, which signal Oin picked up gracefully and went into a demonstrative, gesturing explanation. Thorin nodded. Oin gave the paperwork to Ori. Ori took it to a beautifully carved oaken desk, signed it, entered something into a gold-leafed book, and then stamped the book, stamped the papers, and then turned and handed them to Balin. Balin inspected the paperwork, nodded, and carried it back to the petitioner. The petitioner bowed, shook his hand, bowed at the king, shook Oin’s hand, and went away satisfied.

 _All so very thrilling,_ thought Bilbo dryly, shifting slightly on his stool. No wonder Hobbits didn’t have kings. Their capacity for boredom was… limited.

At one point Thorin looked slowly over at Bilbo as if to say, “See?” Then his eyes lingered over the Hobbit’s person for a moment, with a complacent gleam in them. Bofur paused in his harp stroking, and Thorin let his eyes drift back to his audience. The harp resumed, and Bilbo sat with his heart full. No, he had done the right thing.

Thorin was on his throne, alive. Seeing the beginnings of the re-establishment of Erebor. 

They watched as the last petitioner left, and Bilbo noticed Thorin slump somewhat to the side. He’d obviously been putting forth effort, but now his resources were depleted. Just in time. They could now help him down from the throne, slip him behind the curtain, and take him back to his rooms. Bilbo stood to suggest just that.

And then Dain stepped up and strode with a rolling gait down the red carpet.

Oin stepped forward to meet him, but Dain simply brushed past him and continued on, approaching the throne directly. Immediately every dwarf there was on their feet and closing in, but Dain ignored them all and came to stand before Thorin, who regarded him darkly, face tipped down, eyes in shadow. He was tired, Bilbo noted with concern. There were dark circles growing under his eyes. He hadn’t sat up this long since his awakening. 

“Well done, cousin.” Dain rumbled. “I’m pleased to see you taking charge. Once I know you are truly yourself again, I’ll begin the decampment of my soldiers back to the Iron Hills.”

He stopped and waited for a response. Thorin stared at him wearily.

Oin and Bombur both stepped forward at the same time.

“He’s very tired—“ began Oin.

“Think it’s time for his meal,” inserted Bombur.

But Dain threw out an arm to block them from passing him. His eyes never left Thorin’s face.

“Are you yourself again, Thorin Oakenshield?” He asked loudly, and the challenge in his voice made everyone tense up and fall still.

Bofur chose that moment to give the harp a nervous pluck, and the single low note echoed through the throne room ominously.

Thorin’s eyes were growing heavy. Bilbo drew close to him nervously, ducking under the hand that Dain threw out to stop him. He dodged it and moved quickly up the stair to sit at Thorin’s feet, hoping his nearness would register and bolster the exhausted king.

“He is still injured,” Bilbo reminded Dain with a glare. He looked up at his beloved king in concern, trying with his soft blue eyes to communicate strength and support.

Dain ignored him, taking another step closer. It was clear he’d decided that this was the moment to make his stand. 

“Are you Thorin Oakenshield?” He demanded in slow, measured tones. “Or are you a shade, held captive by the dark magic of wizards and elves?! Held hostage so that others can rule through you!”

His words sank into Bilbo’s mind, and the Hobbit tore his eyes away from Thorin to gaze in horror at Dain. Is that what they thought? Is that what Balin and Dwalin thought? Is that what Gloin thought? He looked around at each dwarf, standing frozen in their various positions, all their eyes flicking from Dain, to Thorin, to Bilbo himself. Waiting.

Thorin was utterly unresponsive. Dain nodded his head. “That is what I feared,” he proclaimed. He turned to Dwalin. “Lock the doors.” 

Dwalin obeyed him with an alacrity that showed him to have already accepted that Dain would be ruler now.

Bilbo was on his feet. “What… you cannot test him this way, he is not yours to test!” He cried, and looked around at the others, hoping they would chime in to second him. But there was only uneasy waiting. 

Bilbo was flabbergasted. “He’s exhausted! He was mortally wounded, he is recovering… you still have soldiers on their cots fighting for their lives! How can you demand that this man who has given so much…” Bilbo paused, almost overwhelmed at the enormity of Thorin’s sacrifices. “So much! He led you, all of you!” He shouted, standing on the steps before Thorin’s feet, guarding him with the spitting outrage of a small cat guarding a wounded hound.

The dwarves turned hesitant faces to Bilbo, attentive as he pointed his finger at each of them in turn. “Remember how he challenged Smaug and stood right in his face, taunting him until the beast breathed the fire to light the forges! Called a fire-breathing dragon a witless worm right to his face! Stood before him with nothing but his honor and faith and his dedication—“ Bilbo’s voice broke, and he swallowed and resumed. “His dedication to YOU! Each of you, his people!”

He paused, panting with outrage. “And now you…. What? You aren’t satisfied? You want to see new feats of courage every day? Is he supposed to keep you entertained for the rest of his life? Are you going to bring in bears for him to fight each week to prove himself again and again?!”

Dain absorbed this and then boomed directly at Bilbo. “How did he come back?”

That one simple question evaporated Bilbo’s outrage and replaced it with fearful guilt. He tried to think of a correct answer, aware that every dwarf in the place was watching him.

Finally, the Hobbit thought of an answer. “He came back because he had the will to come back. The strength, and the love. But that’s not enough for you, is it?”

Dain paced before him, his armor clanking. Dwalin and Balin drew close, positioning themselves as silent supporters for the challenger. Oin and Dori shrank closer to the throne. The sides were being drawn up. 

“Did he come back, or was he brought back?” Dain said quietly, suddenly stopping his pacing. His stare pierced Bilbo. 

Bilbo swallowed, and said, “Both.” There was a rustling amongst the dwarves. Bifur shifted slowly toward Dain’s side.

“What matters is, he is here.” Bilbo continued. “He’s here, and he has the chance to watch Erebor reborn. He has the chance to grow a long, gray beard here amongst the people who SHOULD love him and be grateful to him. So what if he doesn’t stride around barking orders! He hears, he knows…. He knows what you’re doing right now, you can bet,” added Bilbo bitterly. “Knows you can’t wait to take his place.”

Dain drew his sword, “Watch your tongue, Hobbit. You are not one of us,” he growled.

“You’ll stab an unarmed Hobbit? Well, that’s courage for you,” Bilbo bit back, fire in his eyes. He kept his place before Thorin, ready to fight to the death even if all he could reach was a candlestick holder.

Bombur spoke up placatingly. “Thorin needs rest, listen to me, King of Iron Hills. I tended that wound. I know how deep it was. He is still healing. He needs rest.”

To the shock of most of the company, Dwalin spoke unexpectedly. “He had rest. He had glorious rest in an honored place in the Hall of the Ancestors. He fulfilled his destiny. He avenged his father and nephews. He returned us to our mountain and our gold, and died on the field with his sword in his hand, a hero and a legend and a king, and he had rest.” Dwalin shoved past Dain and came nose to nose with Bilbo.

“And then you plucked him from it, thief. Plucked him like you plucked the keys from the elves, and the Arkenstone from us. You just take what you like, don’t you, Master Baggins?” Dwalin growled. “Any pretty thing that you can put in your little pocket.”

Bilbo stood frozen, aghast at the picture Dwalin presented. Even Dwalin didn’t know about the Ring, but the description was suddenly terribly apt. He had indeed taken things and put them in his pocket, and now… his mind quickly flashed over the recent days and nights with Thorin.

Was that indeed what he had done? Plucked him from the beautiful throne he’d earned in eternity, to place him on this broken thing, a broken man whose legacy was in danger of being forgotten in the horror of his shambling resurrection?

Had Tauriel been right to let Kili go?

Had Bilbo been wrong to refuse to let Thorin go?

Dain spoke again. “You hold him here, do you not, Hobbit?”

Bilbo looked around for support, but suddenly even those who believed in Thorin’s gradual recovery seemed to pause in meeting his eyes.

“I am certainly trying to hold him, until he can hold for himself,” he stammered. “I… I don’t understand your attitude. He improves every day, you see it yourself, don’t you? He eats now, he can stand, he spoke—“

“So you say,” sneered Dain, with a doubting glance at Oin. He turned back to glare at Bilbo. “But what I say is this: if you are holding him and he does not wish it, then he is your captive…”

A wave of nausea went through the little Hobbit.

“…and if he is not your captive, and he wishes to stay, then he will stay with or without you.” Dain continued. “But there is only one way to know.”

He turned and nodded at Dwalin. Without word or warning, Dwalin reached forth, grabbed Bilbo, slung him over his shoulder and strode away with him.

“No! NO! THORIN!!!” Bilbo screamed in panic, fighting furiously to escape, bashing Dwalin about the ears and kicking his gut with his bare feet. He squirmed desperately, but the angry dwarf had a punishing grip on him, and carried him farther and farther away from Thorin. 

Bilbo craned around for a look at his king, only to see him tip his head back against the throne, eyes closed, and slump further.

Thorin would die without him. _That lifeline,_ Gandalf had explained. _It is attached to you, Bilbo, not to Thorin Oakenshield._ And if he did not have the will to live, he would not live.

“MURDERER!” Bilbo wailed at the top of his lungs. “Murderers of the King! Is this how you repay him??” He kicked and pummeled with everything he had in him, but Dwalin continued his stoic march, taking him from the throne room, past concrete pillars, into a long, dark hallway lit with torches. Onward he marched, until Bilbo had exhausted himself and lay weeping over his shoulder. Down cold stone stairs they went, where one could hear water dripping in some echoing place. Down where the air grew colder yet, until they were in a place Bilbo had not even known existed. A place of darkness, dampness, and shadows that moved in the flickering torchlight along the narrow walls.

When Dwalin finally flung him down, Bilbo landed on a thin, damp cot in a small stone cell. Before he could even react, the dwarf had turned his back, marched out, and slammed an iron barred door in the Hobbit’s face. It closed with a clang, and Bilbo knew at once that he was in the prisons of Erebor, and that they intended to keep him here until Thorin was either recovered, or more likely, dead.


	17. Waiting

Bilbo lay in shock for a moment. Then his face crumpled in silent sobs, and he curled up in misery. He fingered the Ring in his pocket, but even being invisible did him no good if he was locked in. How long could Thorin last without him, he wondered, feeling sick.

What would happen? He had promised Thorin in the Underworld to be his, his forever. What did that mean, exactly, he wondered wretchedly. Were they bound together? Bound by his promise? Or bound by Gandalf’s lifeline? Did that still exist? If Thorin died, would Bilbo die too, yanked back down by their bond and his promise?

Bilbo contemplated that possibility and grew a bit calmer. It wasn’t his first choice, but it was a fate that did not horrify him. To crawl into Thorin’s arms, twine his hands in that long hair, bring their faces close to each other, and slip into a trance together… this was an acceptable afterlife. _Better than just going to sleep in the ground,_ he thought drearily.

But to know they would just let him die because… because what? They didn’t have the patience and faith to await his full recovery?

Or did they not even desire his full recovery? Bilbo wondered. Did they prefer Dain, who had experience ruling? Thorin had no experience. He’d been an iron-smith, and a warrior, but to rule…? Did they honestly think his part had been best played on the journey, and on the battlefield?

Had his attack of gold mania weakened their faith in his ability to be king? Bilbo lay still and contemplated this possibility with a sinking stomach.

Had he been wrong to interfere? He asked himself again.

Had he, like Tauriel, accepted fate, Thorin would have passed into legend. The man who was fated to come into possession of the map and the key. The heir of Thror and Thrain, who rose to meet his destiny. The man who gathered a small, rag-tag army, and led them through dangers untold, who fought the orcs, escaped the elves, convinced the humans, rallied the armies, challenged the dragon, and died glorious in battle, having defeated his most mortal enemy in his last valiant moments.

Buried with full honors. Sat on a throne in the hall of his ancestors.

Then brought back by a thieving Hobbit with a crush to be a fetish and a bedmate. Dressed like a doll, caressed like a pet.

Suddenly he saw it through Dwalin’s eyes, and Balin’s eyes, and he wondered if he even deserved to live himself.

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped and he lay limp on the damp cot, listening to the water drip somewhere. 

_It wasn’t what I intended,_ he thought sadly. _I just couldn’t stand for him to die after all he went through. And I wanted to still be with him. He was my friend. No, he was more… he was my hero,_ he admitted. 

Bilbo lay breathing, listening for any sounds that might tell him what was happening higher up in the mountain. But no sounds came. Well, he knew what was most likely happening. Thorin was turning pale and cold and slipping back into the deep waters. When his breathing stopped, they would return him to the tomb, lay him out reverently, place his sword on his chest, and congratulate themselves on helping him to escape this evil spell, this final enemy.

Bilbo closed his eyes and tried to accept this outcome. _Let him go,_ he told himself. _Let him go be in peace. Let him have the respect of the dwarves, if this is the only way they can give it. They are his people and you are not._

Hot tears slipped from his closed eyes and trickled toward his ears, but he tried to even his breathing and ignore them. _Think of the Shire. Think of green grass and blue skies. Think of Rivendell._ Surely once it was all over, they would let him go. Banish him, probably. _Think of fields of flowers. All the things you’d never see again, staying here in this mountain._

Eventually, Bilbo cried himself to sleep.


	18. And Waiting

Bilbo awoke when a clang and a flaring brightness of an extra torch assaulted his senses. He sat slowly up on his thin cot on the stone floor, aware by the stiffness of his body and the swelling of his eyes, and the general sense one simply has, that he had been asleep for hours. 

After a moment, the stony form of Dwalin came into view, with a torch in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. Without a word, he thrust his hand with the bread through the bars and tossed it onto Bilbo’s lap. Then he detached from his belt a skin of something to drink, wine, probably, and tossed that in as well.

Bilbo glared up at him dully. He waited for Dwalin to gloat that Thorin was dead, but the dwarf only glared back in silence.

“Well?” Bilbo asked, “How long did it take to kill your king?”

“He is fading, but your magic is clearly strong,” Dwalin told him evenly.

“Perhaps his will to live is strong. It always was before,” Bilbo replied, his eyes never leaving the dwarf’s. Dwalin turned to leave, and Bilbo called after him, “That’s what you should put on the door of his tomb! Here lies Thorin, he survived orcs, wargs, elves, spiders… everything but his friends!”

Dwalin’s steps faltered for a moment, and Bilbo saw his shoulders rise tensely. Then he surged away, leaving Bilbo in the darker shadows of the single torch outside his cell, and he heard the outer door clang shut. _They hadn’t even left him with a guard to see to his safety,_ he thought bitterly.

_Dwarves, that’s… that’s dwarves for you. Risk your life for them and this is your payment,_ Bilbo mused. Even Thorin had turned nasty when that gold fever and that damn stone got in his brain. Forgot everything Bilbo had done. Dangled him over the wall and threatened to kill him.

_Better off without them all,_ he told himself, trying not to let tears start sliding down his cheeks again. He tried to eat the bread but couldn’t.

“I can drink this, though,” he mumbled, and downed the wine in sips, hoping to fall back to sleep. _Just sleep till it’s over. Maybe you’ll wake up in Thorin’s arms in the Hall of the Ancestors again, and he’ll have a grip on you like…_ Bilbo smiled a little to himself _… like he does, you know how he gets, greedy dwarf… and he’ll stare down at you and whisper “Mine.”_

Bilbo drank some more, tears slipping down again, imagining that scene with all his energy. Maybe if he thought of it hard enough, he could sink down there on his own. He finished the wine, grateful for the softening of his grief. Then he lay back down, buried his face, and imagined as hard as he could that the next time he opened his eyes, he would be with Thorin.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was still in the cold cell. Again, he was certain hours had passed. Was that wine drugged? He thought it might have been. Well, it was a kindness, really, wasn’t it?

By now it must be over. He’d only been away a half hour that first time, and Thorin had nearly slipped away. At this point… Bilbo tried to estimate. He was sure he’d slept 4 or 5 hours the first time, and… what… even more the second. 

If Thorin was dead, why wasn’t he, Bilbo, dead? Was there no bond? Did his promise not hold? Or would he live a normal life and die an old Hobbit, only to find that Thorin was waiting for him to fulfill his vow?

Bilbo considered. That was a … romantic thought, rather. Not cheering, though, to think he’d have to learn to live without Thorin for so many years before they might be reunited.

What if they were never reunited at all? Gandalf had said, “This is not your afterlife.”

Bilbo sighed. If Thorin was dead now, and he was still alive, there must not be any bond. He had bought himself ten days, ten extra days of caring for Thorin, loving him, serving him… and that was all.

Bilbo lay and stared at the shadows cast by the torch, letting the cold seep into his bones. He tried to feel lucky that he’d gotten those 10 extra days. Maybe he should just cherish those memories. He thought of the sweet, musky smell of the oils he’d rubbed into Thorin’s skin hour after hour, and the scent of him as they lay in the bed together, wrapped in furs.

He thought of the silver streaks in Thorin’s hair. How Bilbo loved those silver streaks. So dramatic. Like Thorin... he was… drama embodied. Just the slow, studied way he could turn around and look at someone… Bilbo smiled to himself through his tears (how much can one Hobbit cry?) Think of him striding around in those ridiculous boots of his. No wonder he walked like that, in those boots.

Bilbo’s smile faded. _At least he knew I loved him,_ he mused, sniffling. _He must know I loved him._

Suddenly his large, pointed ears moved slightly of their own accord. Footsteps in the distance. Time for Dwalin to throw another bag of drugged wine at him? Bilbo turned his head and waited, not having the energy to sit up. Nothing really seemed to matter anymore.

To his mild surprise, Dwalin was not alone this time. Balin was with him. They brought a plate of food that showed a bit more care for his well-being than the earlier bread offering. Bilbo didn’t really have much interest in food right now, though.

He looked up at them blankly, understanding now why Thorin had done so for all those days: you just get to the point where you are done, and you don’t care to struggle any further.

“Bilbo,” Balin said soberly, “what kind of magic have you cast on Thorin?”

Bilbo stared back at him. Did this mean Thorin was still alive? It sounded as if he were, but the Hobbit was afraid to ask. Hope bloomed, and then died. They’d keep him here till Thorin was dead, he was certain of it now. Or until he recovered, and it didn’t sound like he was recovering.

Bilbo decided not to answer them. _Dwarves, this is how they repay you. You throw yourself into death to save their king, and this is what you get. A cell and some bread._

Balin sighed, sitting down on the dungeon floor on the other side of the cell door. He slid the plate under the last bar of the doorway. It smelled good, but Bilbo had no appetite. He stared off into space and willed himself to not feel anything.

“Laddie, I don’t think the same of you as Dain does,” the old dwarf said gently, his shrewd eyes on the motionless Hobbit. “I don’t think you have any interest in ruling Erebor through Thorin. It was always clear to me you were happy enough to be in charge of the linen and tea, and combing his hair.”

Bilbo closed his eyes in pain. That scented black and silver hair, streaming away from that wide, smooth forehead.

“I think you just wanted him back and you thought you could bring him back. But you can’t do it, my little friend.” Balin sighed. “He’s not the same. Right now he’s up there lying in his bed, white as a sheet, staring at the ceiling, looking… bit like you are, really… and it seems like it’s all he can do to keep his heart pounding.”

Bilbo clenched his fists, wanting to shriek at this description. God, it sounded like Thorin was suffering! And … and holding on by sheer force of will.

Could Thorin be waiting for him? Holding on because he knew that Bilbo had not left of his own accord? That their bond was still there, that his promise to serve forever still held? Bilbo sat up abruptly.

He had to get to Thorin.

Dwalin and Balin both had their full attention on him. He felt in his pocket for the Ring. Yes. Good. All he really had to do was get them to open that door. He thought for a moment.

“If you want me to let him go, I’ll need help,” he said suddenly, and gave them both a businesslike look.

Then he took up the plate of food and began eating. His appetite had abruptly returned, and he felt he might need strength for his escape attempt, so he slurped the victuals down quickly. Not bad. Bombur, obviously.

He ignored the two dwarves coldly for a moment, finishing his food with relish and then wiping his hands rather fussily on his vest. Stalling, really, his eyes darting around as he thought. Okay, now he had it.

“You’re right, he’s under a spell.” Bilbo said. “And it took three people to cast it, so it will take three people to break it. We… we need to hold hands and sit in a circle.” He glanced around his tiny cell and then looked out to where Dwalin stood staring at him.

“Out there would be good. Not really enough room in here. And um… I’ll need a candle?” Bilbo said brightly, looking Balin calmly in the eye. Anything to get them to open that door.

Dwalin snorted in disbelief, but Balin turned to him with a look. “Is there a candle?” He asked. Dwalin stormed away and returned a moment later with a candle, looking for all the world like he knew this was damned nonsense, and probably a trick to boot. He’d be eying Bilbo, no question. And torches cast shadows.

Bilbo looked around at the room outside his cell. Where were the shadows the thickest? Where was a niche he might be able to curl up in should they realize that he was still there, and merely invisible? Should they start groping around in search of him? Actually, flattening himself against the wall near the hinge of the outer door might work.

Dwalin stepped forward and glared at him through the bars. “What are you looking at, burglar?” He growled.

Bilbo blinked at him innocently. “I … I just need to know which way is East,” he improvised quickly. “Sometimes the side where the moisture is thickest can tell you.”

The two dwarves looked at each other. They neither of them had any idea which way was East.

“Well, maybe it won’t matter.” Bilbo said. “We’ll put the candle on the floor over there, and you… well, you’ll have to let me out. We’ll hold hands and I’ll say the words Gandalf taught me—“

“I am not opening that door,” Dwalin stated flatly.

Balin sighed again. “There are two of us, and he is only one little Hobbit, I think we’re safe.” He told Dwalin firmly.

There was a stare down, and Bilbo’s hand went into his pocket. _Hold on, Thorin,_ he pleaded in his mind. He got to his feet and stood as calmly as he could.

“If you want my cooperation, you’ll have to let me out. We don’t have to leave this prison, I just need to be out of this cell,” he said briskly.

Finally Dwalin stepped forth, his face in a tight snarl of disapproval, and unlocked the door. Bilbo stepped out lightly, pointed to the candle, and said, “Can you put it right… there.”

Both dwarves looked at “there.” Bilbo slipped on the Ring and tiptoed quietly to the door. He flattened himself near the hinges and watched all Hell break loose.


	19. Escape

In the next few moments, Bilbo learned several things. One, Dwalin in a rage is a truly terrifying sight. The bald dwarf turned to see that Bilbo was nowhere in sight, and let out a roar that he was sure could have been heard in the throne room. He hurled the candle at the cot and set it on fire. He nearly tore the hinges off the cell door. Even Balin shrank away from him, sputtering “Now, now, let’s not panic!”

Bilbo hardly dared to breathe. The next thing he learned is that neither dwarf was stupid. They searched the room with their hands, and Bilbo had to dance a few times to avoid being touched.

Finally, Balin said, “This is how he got those keys from the Woodland Elves. I thought he just got them drunk.”

Dwalin just snarled. 

“He might already be up there with Thorin,” Balin added, his eyes still searching the room. They both grew very still, listening. Bilbo held very still too, waiting.

“Let’s go,” Balin decided abruptly, and he led the way to the door. Bilbo shrank away as they flung the outer door open and surged out, then he followed before the door slammed shut behind him. But he gave them a good head start, waiting till the glow of their torch was only a distant beam for him to follow.

Trotting along behind them, he heard their consultations.

“He’ll go to Thorin, we’ll catch him and bring him back, that’s all,” Balin said comfortingly to Dwalin.

“I’d rather kill the little beast,” Dwalin snarled.

“Don’t be like that. You’re changing,” warned Balin, trying to keep up with his younger brother. “He was a valued member of the company, and he didn’t mean to turn Thorin into a shade. He just couldn’t let go…” their voices echoed back to Bilbo.

“This is what happens when you let someone in who doesn’t belong,” Dwalin replied darkly. They were almost at the throne room. When they entered, Bilbo was startled to see it full of dwarves and men. They milled about excitedly. Dain was there, holding court. He wasn’t sitting on the throne yet, but he stood near it, clearly in charge.

“The Hobbit has escaped,” Dwalin declared to the room at large, and the babble of voices rose excitedly.

Dain came forward to meet them. “It’s only a matter of time. Nature is taking its course now that the magical influence has been removed.”

Bilbo tiptoed past them, hating them with all his heart. As he moved toward the royal chambers, he heard Balin say, “Just keep Bilbo out of the rooms. He’ll only upset Thorin and disturb his final hours.”

There had been moments when Bilbo had wondered if letting go would have been the correct thing to do. But if Thorin was holding on, consciously, deliberately holding on, then he wanted to live. 

If he wanted to live, Bilbo wanted him to live. He ran to the royal chambers and waited for the door to open. He knew from experience people ran in and out of there constantly. It was only a matter of minutes before—

Yes! The door opened and Ori came out with an empty flagon of ale. Bilbo darted past him and ran to the bed. Nearly every dwarf in the company was there, holding vigil over the white figure on the bed. Thorin lay just as Balin had described him, staring sternly at the ceiling, eyes wide, forehead sweating, breathing labored. Holding on by sheer force of will. 

Desperately, Bilbo circled the bed, trying to find a way past the ring of dwarves who surrounded the king so sorrowfully.

 _Idiots,_ he thought furiously. _Couldn’t wait. Couldn’t let me bring him back gradually, oh no, it’s all or nothing and now, now, now._

He stopped, panting in frustration. How to get these fools away from the bed??

Finally he looked over to the table. Sugar. There was still sugar on the table from tea that morning.

He grabbed a cup of sugar and threw it into the fireplace. The flames shot up and sparked, startling all of the dwarves, who turned to stare at the fireplace suspiciously. Just then the door flew open and Dwalin surged in. 

“The Hobbit has escaped—“ they all took several steps toward him, and Bilbo took a running leap for the bed, landing beside Thorin and curling himself up against the headboard around the king’s head.

“I’m here,” he whispered in Thorin’s ear, and placed both hands on the pale cheeks. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m keeping my promise,” he put his face in Thorin’s neck and kissed it, and then started whispering to him again.

“I’m yours. I’ll be your faithful servant all of my days and all of my afterlife, if you’ll just take me with you when you go. I never left your side of my own free will. I swear to you, I swear to you I am with you forever, my king, my beloved king—“

Dwalin’s voice continued near the door, “—keep this door closed at all times! No one else comes in or out, by Dain’s orders.”

Voices broke out immediately, “Dain isn’t king yet.” And “Can he not even wait until—“ and “There is still hope,” and one small voice, Ori’s, saying “Why can’t we let Bilbo back in? Thorin was getting better when Bilbo was with him.”

Bless Ori, Bilbo thought, pressing his face in tighter. He could feel Thorin’s breathing slowing down and he wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or a bad one.

“Please… please… only leave me if you really want to leave me. I don’t want you to,” Bilbo whispered tearfully, “but if you want to go, I give—“ his throat closed up for a moment and he swallowed it down. “I give you my blessings for all time. My love. My adoration. I do love you, Thorin Oakenshield. I don’t want you to go. But I don’t want you to suffer and I just don’t know what to do,” he continued, his tears mingling with Thorin’s sweat.

Finally Bilbo risked raising his head. He looked at Thorin. Thorin looked peaceful, resting. His fingers were no longer clutching at the sheets, his eyes had lowered from the ceiling and were gazing more naturally toward the far wall. His breathing was not labored, his skin was not so white. 

Oin and Nori had both noticed too. They drifted closer, watching.

“Is he going?” Nori asked in a low, anguished tone.

Oin shook his head to indicate that he did not know, could not tell.

Thorin closed his eyes for a long moment. Bilbo hovered, his hands still touching those cheeks. Then Thorin opened his eyes again, swallowed, and with great effort, rasped out, “I want you … all to … leave me… for… a while.”

The effect was as if a bomb had gone off.

Oin, Dori, Nori, Bombur, and Bofur fell back from the bed as if a force field had propelled them. Bifur, Dwalin, and Balin lept forward as if they would pounce on Thorin to drive out whatever evil demon had taken over his body. Gloin and Ori, who had returned with wine and food, dropped them all on the floor with a shattering crash (and Ori screamed.)

Bilbo kept his hands on Thorin, his heart pounding with hope, and held very still, hoping they wouldn’t notice any odd depressions on the pillows around Thorin’s head. He needn’t have worried. They were all too busy staring into his face.

“Is that you, Thorin Oakenshield,” Balin asked with deep, formal tones, rather like Gandalf. 

Thorin pressed his lips together and his forehead creased with obvious effort. “It is,” he managed. “And I want … to live. Go. Go.” He managed, before his eyes dropped shut.

They glanced at one another and backed away. Dwalin went to the door, opened it carefully and looked about. Then, deciding the coast was clear, he strode out and gestured for the others to follow.

Ori was the last one out. He hesitated, looking back. “Should we leave him alone? I don’t think we should leave him alone…”

Bilbo decided to risk it. He yanked off the ring and Ori’s eyes widened. Bilbo lifted one finger to his lips: hush. Ori snapped his mouth shut and ran out the door, closing it with a bang. 

Bilbo jumped agilely off the bed and went to the door, locking them all out. Then he went to the door of the adjoining room and locked it as well. Finally, avoiding the smashed and broken plates and food on the floor, he darted back to the bed and climbed on, throwing himself on Thorin with complete abandon.

“Whatever you want,” he said wretchedly. “Whatever you want, whatever you want, whatever you want…” he wasn’t even aware he was saying it. But it came directly from his broken little heart. He clutched at the bare arms, he buried his face in the streaming hair, he wrapped his legs around those hips, though they were under the blankets and he was on top of them. 

“I’ll never leave you, unless you want me to,” Bilbo snuffled into the pillows beside Thorin’s ear. After a moment, he felt warm arms sneaking around his waist, and the huff of a sigh in his ear.

Then that baritone rasp he thought he’d never hear again said, “Hush. Sleep now,” and Bilbo virtually passed out. It was more of a faint, but it produced the rest and silence his king desired, and the two grew still on the bed together.


	20. The Conversation

When Bilbo awoke, he was on the bed alone. He blinked for a moment, rolled in search of Thorin’s heat, and when he found nothing, he came awake with dread. He sat up and looked toward the dying fire. There, standing unsteadily by the fireplace, was Thorin, leaning against the mantle, his black robe tied about him, his hair a mess.

Bilbo sat up, hardly daring to hope or believe. Thorin turned his neck rather stiffly to look at him and offered a smile.

“I was trying…” he gestured toward the fire and Bilbo saw that he had a poker in his hand. “But… dizzy.”

Bilbo slipped from the bed and went to him, gazing up at him with so much love in his eyes, it was a wonder they didn’t turn into hearts. Then he took the poker and poked at the fire for Thorin.

When he stood again, Thorin put a hand on his shoulder and looked over at the chair longingly. Bilbo helped him to it, and then fell into his habit of fussing over the robe and the hair, just for the excuse to touch. After a moment, Thorin gave a husky laugh that sounded almost more like a cough. “Stop,” he whispered good-naturedly, and gave Bilbo that warm smile he’d given when he found the Hobbit fondling an acorn.

Bilbo sank to his knees and leaned against Thorin’s legs, putting his face against the robe. He was simply overcome. The day in prison had played havoc with his heart. _If that’s what a single day can do,_ he thought… and sighed. He felt Thorin’s hand come to rest warmly on his curls.

Finally he looked up, searching for something to say. The thought of how dry Thorin’s voice was made him say, “Tea?”

Thorin grinned again. It was just such a Hobbit thing to say.

“Yes,” he rasped out, and they both looked over at the shattered tea set on the floor that Ori and Gloin had dropped.

Bilbo stood. “I’ll tell them to bring—“ he halted, his face sobering. Then he turned back to Thorin. “If they know I’m here, they’ll take me away.”

The dwarf heaved an exhausted sigh and held his hands out to Bilbo. “Up,” was all he said.

Bilbo pulled him up and watched his king move slowly to the door. At the door, he turned and gestured for Bilbo to hide. Bilbo went into the adjoining room, not wanting to put the Ring on.

Thorin opened the door to see nine dwarves sitting on the floor outside his door. Several of them were asleep, but at the sound they all opened their eyes and gaped up at him.

Thorin regarded them with mingled caution and affection. Then, with obvious effort, he said, “I would like... some tea.”

The company scrambled to its feet, collectively, and he stood aside to let Ori and Oin enter the room, gather up the mess on the floor and take it away. The others hovered uncertainly, wondering if they were invited in. Thorin regarded Balin for a moment. “Soon,” he whispered, and then, obviously fatigued, he closed the door in their faces.

Bilbo crept out of the room and helped Thorin back to his chair. Then Thorin pulled him onto his lap and cradled the Hobbit, his eyes closed, while they waited for their tea. Bilbo leaned his head on the black-robed shoulder, playing with the beads that dangled down from his hair. They didn’t seem to need to say anything to one another. It was enough to sit as close as they could, listening to the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the dwarves speculating outside in the hallway.

Eventually the knock came, and Bilbo slipped back into the other room. The knock came again and finally the door eased open, and Ori appeared with the tea, followed by Balin.

“May I?” asked the old dwarf politely, and Thorin nodded graciously. Balin poured tea for Thorin and himself (waving young Ori back toward the door. Ori glanced around for the Hobbit he knew was there somewhere, but exited without word.)

Thorin sipped his tea, breathing a sigh of relief as the hot liquid went into his parched throat. He reached with unsteady hands for more, and Balin quickly poured some from the teapot on the table and handed it to his king.

After a moment, Thorin spoke, still with apparent effort. “I do not give you permission... to take Bilbo again.”

Balin opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated, and plunged in. “Thorin, I think you are under a spell.”

Thorin smiled at him. “I like my spell. Leave it.”

Balin raised his eyebrows. Thorin let the smile die and said it again, more seriously.

“Leave it.” Then he turned his head. “Bilbo,” he called out.

Bilbo came from the adjoining room and went to Thorin’s side, staring at Balin in a not very friendly manner.

“Have some tea,” Thorin said slowly, pointing at the table, and Bilbo with great dignity went to the table, sat down, and poured himself a cup of tea.

There was an awkward silence. Thorin held his cup toward Bilbo, who took it and poured him another serving of tea. Balin watched the process uncertainly.

Thorin sipped his tea and then said, still with some obvious difficulty, “Tell Dwalin… no more.” He let his eyes speak for him. Balin nodded, and then pushed away from the table and to his feet.

“Aye, laddie. I suppose you’re yourself enough for us.” Balin said with a smile.

_Oh, now he’s good enough,_ Bilbo thought. It must have shown on his face, for Balin looked at him and seemed to grow rather ashamed.

“We didn’t know, Master Baggins… we thought—“

Bilbo didn’t bother to restrain himself any longer. “You thought that anything a Hobbit, a wizard, and an Elf did must have been bad, because we are outsiders, and we are not dwarves, and we are not truly like you, and you are close-minded, suspicious, and frankly, arrogant.”

Thorin made a weak shut-up gesture, but Bilbo was seething. “I have done everything I can to show you my allegiance to your company and my dedication to your well-being, and your cause, and your king, and you never accepted me, you never believed in me, you… you just…”

He slammed down his tea. “I don’t really like you right now,” he told Balin. Balin took this as a cue to tiptoe to the door.

“And you can tell Dwalin I said Ha ha ha I got away and I hope he’s not happy.” Bilbo added childishly. Balin gave him an odd look and slipped out the door.

The Hobbit turned back to Thorin to see him chuckling rustily into his tea. But after a moment, the king sobered, let the empty cup sink into his lap, and looked at Bilbo.

“I have… a question,” he said hoarsely.

Bilbo listened attentively.

Thorin looked into the fire for a moment, and then turned back to Bilbo. “Would you … still be mine… if I were… not King?”

Bilbo stared, and Thorin stared back, those stormy blue eyes almost black in the dim light. Finally the Hobbit became aware that his lover was actually waiting for an answer.

“Yes! Yes, I… are you mad? Yes!” Bilbo practically stammered for a moment. “Why- why would you ask that?”

Thorin gave a weary tip of his head. “You… try so hard—“ he gestured at the wardrobe in the corner where the ceremonial armor was stored, and looked over at the bowl of jewelry Bilbo had sorted through to dress him. “All this—“

Bilbo looked around at the rooms as well, and all the trappings of royalty that had grown up around them like a golden forest.

“I thought it was what you wanted,” Bilbo explained, turning to stare back at the dwarf with the shadowy eyes. “It was all you lived for all your life, all you dreamed of…. I couldn’t stand that you died just on the verge of realizing your dreams… I wanted you to have what you’d worked so hard for!”

Thorin turned back toward the fire. “But you… did promise… I’d be your king.”

Bilbo came to him and put both hands on his arm, leaning forward to smell his hair happily. “You are my king no matter what,” he said, smiling at he nuzzled.

Thorin nodded slowly. “Good.” Then he sighed. “I need more sleep.” His deep voice broke on that last word, and Bilbo helped him back to the bed. He shed the robe and settled in with a groan. Then he opened his arms. “Come,” he commanded, and Bilbo peeled off his clothes, which were none too clean by this time, and crawled naked into the bed with his beloved. Thorin wrapped Bilbo up tight in his arms, rolled over on top of him, and relaxed with a huff of relief.

Bilbo squirmed till he was comfortable, and they dozed off in a naked tangle. The Hobbit woke once to murmur, “I forgot to lock the door,” and received an indifferent growl for a reply. He shrugged and let himself slip back under.


	21. Bilbo and Thorin Write a Letter

They were closeted together all the next day. Bilbo allowed Gloin and Nori in long enough to bring food and send out laundry, and then the door was closed on the company again. The dwarves wondered what was up behind that closed door, and they speculated a great deal, but none of them guessed the real activity. Thorin was dictating a letter. 

Speaking was still an effort. Thorin did not have the energy he once had. Part of his soul truly was … not in the afterlife, but terribly aware of it. Having seen it, having experienced the trance and the visions, it was not easy to live fully in this world again. It wasn’t so for Bilbo, who had no response to ancestors and eternal glory, but he accepted that his lover was a dwarf of Royal blood, and likely to be a little odd because of it.

So he sat at the desk, paper before him, quill in hand, and attended. Thorin reclined in the bed, propped up on pillows and lubricated with a flagon of ale, and uttered short sentences to his scribe. Bilbo elaborated upon them, repeated back his suggestions, received a yay or nay, and the letter-writing went on.

The finished product, after hours of labor, was actually rather short, given all the debate between the two about whether certain events needed to be mentioned specifically. Thorin wanted to include more apologies and reassurances. Bilbo was more for inserting a good scolding to certain dwarves. But they argued each other down, Bilbo volubly, Thorin in halting words and expressive scowls. Finally, it read as follows.

_To The Distinguished Members of the Company That Liberated Erebor~_

_I, Thorin Oakenshield, being of sound mind and peaceful heart, do hereby declare my cousin Dain Ironfoot my legal heir. I step down from the throne freely and ask him to rule in my stead, knowing him to be a fair and just leader, a sound warrior but a lover of peace—_

(“Really,” asked Bilbo doubtfully, and Thorin made a gesture that suggested “It’s just what is always said in formal writing,”)

_\--wise and experienced, and able to bear the burden of this responsibility. My desires, thanks to the efforts of so many, have been realized. My people have a home. My family has been avenged. The gold has been returned to its rightful owners. Peace is established. But my health demands I learn to enjoy our new peace and our home from retirement. I hope not to disappoint my friends and family, or lower myself in their eyes. If it pains anyone to see me abdicate, be aware that I am not pained. I did sit upon that throne. I did feel the Arkenstone radiate above my head. I did gaze upon the gold of Erebor and say, “It is ours again, as it should have been.” My destiny is fulfilled. I am at peace._

 

Here it broke off and there was a debate about whether to write about future plans. 

“What if you don’t like the Shire,” Bilbo ventured.

Thorin looked over at him. “Blue Mountains?” he rasped.

Bilbo considered this. “Yes, we could travel. You could show me where you lived all those years! Oh yes. I should like to see that. We could… well, we have our shares of the gold, don’t we? I suppose we could have a summer house in the Shire, a little place in the Blue Mountains, and come back here to visit periodically, if we like...”

Thorin smiled and let Bilbo plot and plan. Then he sank into contemplation.

He never would be the same again; he sensed this. His physical strength was returning slowly, but his intensity and drive were gone. The dwarves were right to say he was not the old Thorin. But… this was not a bad thing. The Thorin of their travels had been a stressed, unhappy soul. Yearning for his birthright, angry at his exile, resentful of those who had turned their backs and failed to help, unable to trust, burning with hatred of Elves and of the Pale Orc, uneasy at the thought of the darker side of his heritage, aching to rule and unsure he’d be able to, and under terrible pressure to conceal it all and present a strong front for the men he led.

Success in reaching Erebor and unlocking that door had given him the confidence that he had done right in setting out on this mission.

Gold and the Arkenstone had given him a nasty taste of his own weakness, and a new humility to balance his confidence.

The horror of Smaug’s attack on Laketown had awakened him to the consequences of his actions to others.

The Battle of the Five Armies had opened his mind to the need to learn to trust allies.

Revenge on Azog had given him peace, but cost him in two very dear nephews.

Finally, Death had given him the glory he’d hungered for, and his moments in the afterlife had given him visions of eternity that still sweetened his dreams from time to time.

It was all a little overwhelming. His mind felt scrambled. Everything he’d lived for was accomplished now, and he had been ready to let that be the end of his earthly experience.

And then came his little burglar, who chased him into the afterlife, begging him to return and be loved.

Love. Not something Thorin Oakenshield had ever thought he wanted or needed. But with all his previous drives either fulfilled or nullified, much of his blank numbness since his resurrection had been shock. Who was he now? Ruling Erebor had been much more satisfying as a goal than as a reality. His mission in life was accomplished. Ending it in a glorious death and a place in the Hall of Ancestors had been a bittersweet development, but he could look at it and say, “What else could I have done? My part was finished.”

Except for this Hobbit who had a new assignment for him. To be his love.

It was an entirely new adventure. Loving and being loved… more interesting, really, than mediating statute of limitation issues on property disputes.

He could still look on Erebor and say, “My Kingdom,” for it was his. As it was all of theirs. Their kingdom, the dwarves of Erebor. He could look on that gold and say “mine” of quite a large portion of it, and increasingly Thorin was thinking that it would be better to travel light and trust most of it to Oin’s safe-keeping.

But now it pleased him to look over at Bilbo Baggins, calmly scratching away at that paper with a feather, his curls tumbling over his forehead toward that tip-pointed nose, his bare feet tucked on the rung beneath the chair, and think “Mine.” 

Thorin smiled and took another drink of ale. His second life was going to be very different than the first one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this story, this isn't how I thought it would go. But you know how it is when you're writing: something seems to take over. So here it is. I just couldn't stand for Thorin to die.


End file.
